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FINNIGIN 


A   BOOK   OF    GILLILAN    VERSE 


BY 

STRICKLAND  W.  GILLILAN 


PEARSON   BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 
PHILADELPHIA 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
STRICKLAND  W.  GILLILAN 


JSorb  ($>afftwote  ( 

BALTIMORE,  MD.,  U.  S.  A. 


LOVINGLY  DEDICATED 

TO  MY  WIFE 
HARRIET  NETTLETON  GILLILAN 


497048 


PREFATORY  SOLILOQUY 

I  do  not  know  why  I  publish  this  volume.  True,  many 
people  have  said  they  wanted  copies  of  my  stuff,  but 
they  were  charitably  lying  about  it,  God  bless  them,  and 
didn't  deceive  me  for  a  moment.  I'm  only  glad  they 
thought  so  much  of  my  temporary  joy  as  to  purchase  it 
for  me  at  the  price  of  their  own  souls'  jeopardy. 

I  know  enough  of  the  experience  of  publishers  of  their 
own  verse  to  realize  that  I'll  lose  money  on  this  book,  so 
it  isn't  greed  for  gain  that  prompts  me. 

I  suspect  it's  largely  vanity,  re-enforced  with  the 
knowledge  that  a  few  sincere  friends  really  do  want  my 
least-worst  verses,  that  moves  me  to  start  this  drain  on 
my  bank  account.  At  any  rate,  I  enter  into  it  with  joy. 

The  bell-wether,  as  it  were,  of  this  huddle  of  strays,  is 
the  "  Finnigin  "  story,  which  opened  to  me  the  door  to 
opportunity,  both  in  the  periodicals  and  on  the  platform. 
The  fact  of  its  having  been  published  in  New  York  Life, 
that  acknowledged  standard  of  the  world's  humor,  did 
almost  as  much  for  the  story  and  me  as  did  whatever 
merit  the  former  possessed  intrinsically. 

Of  the  other  verses,  it  is  fair  to  say  they  have  been 
published  in  the  Indianapolis  Journal,  Los  Angeles 
Herald,  Chicago  News,  New  York  Sun,  Baltimore  Amer- 
ican, The  Reader  Magazine,  Success  Magazine,  Asso- 


ciated  Sunday  Magazines,  and  elsewhere,  and  to  all 
these  various  publications  I  make  humble  and  grateful 
acknowledgment. 

They  are  a  queerly  assorted  lot  making  a  queer  book — 
"  a  poor  thing,  but  mine  own." 

Some  of  the  verses  are  hilarious,  others  serious,  others 
doubtful;  nearly  all  are  philosophical.  Anyone  can  see 
in  a  moment  that  my  association  with  my  wife  and  my 
children  has  been  one  of  the  most  fruitful  inspiration 
sources.  They  are  my  mainspring.  Were  it  not  for  them 
I  couldn't  work  so  much ;  and  I  shouldn't  need  to,  either. 

S.  W.  G. 


CONTENTS 


A  BABY  THE  SIZE  OF  MINE 34 

A  FOOTBALL  HERO 32 

AFTER  THE  QUARREL 14 

AMBITION'S  AIDS 69 

AN  OLD  MAN'S   RETROSPECT 76 

A  MODEST  PRAYER 66 

A  RECOLLECTION 70 

A  SONG  OF  HOPE 84 

AT  SLEEPY  TIME 72 

BABY'S  FAVORITE  RESORT 73 

BELIEVE.       74 

CONTRASTS 78 

CONVINCED 80 

COUNTING  THE  COST 63 

CRY  OF  THE  ALIEN 56 

DRESSING  BY  THE  FIRE 82 

EGOTISM'S  ANTIDOTE 60 

FIDGETS 64 

FINNIGIN  TO  FLANNIGAN 11 

FINEST  OF  ALL 103 

GET  MAD 101 

GRINNING  PHOTOGRAPHS 43 

HOMESICK 13 

I  USED  TO  THINK  I  LOVED  YOU   .  24 


LOVELY  WOMAN'S  WAY 122 

MADE-OVER 36 

MAMMY'S  LULLABY 119 

ME  AN'  BILL 120 

ME  AN'  PAP  AN'  MOTHER 20 

MODERN  MEDICINE    .   .    . 22 

MORNING  GLORY  AND  VIOLET 15 

MY  PIPE  IS  OUT 123 

MY  SECRET 42 

NOW  I  LAY  ME 28 

PATRIOTIC  REMNANTS 26 

PUSH,  DON'T  KNOCK 27 

RUTS 118 

SHE  CALLED  MY  BLUFF 52 

SOME  ONE  HEARS 50 

SONG  OF  THE  FREIGHT  CAR 54 

SOURCES 53 

STAMINA  VS.  BLUFF 61 

SUCCESSFUL  OPERATIONS 58 

SUCKING  VS.  CRUNCHING 112 

THE  BUILDER 16 

THE  CHILDREN 65 

THE  COMMON  HERD 68 

THE  CROOKED  WINDOW  PANE 46 

THE  EGOTIST'S  HEAVEN 113 

THE  FAMILY  GROUP 116 

THE  FINEST  SIGHT 100 

THE  GIRL  CHILD 114 

THE  LAY  OF  THE  LIVER 18 

THE  MUSIC  THAT  CARRIES 45 

THE  OLD  ASH-HOPPER 106 

THE  OLD    CABINET  ORGAN 109 

THE  OTHER  FELLOW'S  JOB 102 

THE  POST  OFFICE  PEN 99 

8 


THE  QUIET  MAN  IN  THE  CORNER 94 

THE  SCALLOP  IN  THE  SKY 96 

THE  SEWING  MACHINE  DRAWER 62 

THE  SWEETEST  SONG 98 

THE  UNIVERSAL  HABIT 48 

-THE  UNPOPULAR  MAN 93 

THE  WATER  'S  FINE 92 

THE  WORRYLESS  MAN 89 

THEY  CALL  ME  STRONG 90 

TO  A  NEW  BABY 91 

TOMORROW 44 

UNDER  THE  WILLOWS 30 

WATCH  YOURSELF  GO  BY 85 

WE  OCCUPIED  A  BOX 86 

WHAT  THE  BAD  MAN  SAID 95 

WHEN  OUR  GAL  SPOKE  A  PIECE 104 

WHEN  PAPA  HOLDS  MY  HAND 88 

WHEN  SYLVIA   SWATHES  HERSELF 40 

WHEN  THE  JOKE  'S  ON  US 108 

WHICH  FORK 38 

YOUR  IMPRESS  .  35 


FINNIGIN  TO  FLANNiGAN 

.'*'    ,%    ;     i  ;•••••  ;•; 
Superintindint  wuz  Flannigan  > ,•  .* » V  t .«  I  i 

Boss  av  th'  siction  wuz  Finnigin. 

Whiniver  th'  cyars  got  off  th'  thrack 

An'  muddled  up  things  t'  th'  divvle  an'  back, 

Finnigin  writ  it  t'  Flannigan, 

Afther  th'  wrick  wuz  all  on  agin; 

That  is,  this  Finnigin 

Repoorted  t'  Flannigan. 

Whin  Finnigin  furrst  writ  t'  Flannigan, 
He  writed  tin  pa-ages,  did  Finnigin; 
An'  he  towld  just  how  th'  wrick  occurred — 
Yis,  minny  a  tajus,  blundherin'  wurrd 
Did  Finnigin  write  t'  Flannigan 
Afther  th'  cyars  had  gone  on  agin — 
That's  th'  way  Finnigin 
Repoorted  t'  Flannigan. 

Now  Flannigan  knowed  more  than  Finnigin — 

He'd  more  idjucation,  had  Flannigan. 

An'  ut  wore  'm  clane  an'  complately  out 

T'  tell  what  Finnigin  writ  about 

In  's  writin'  t'  Musther  Flannigan. 

So  he  writed  this  back.    "  Musther  Finnigin : — 

Don't  do  sich  a  sin  agin; 

Make  'em  brief,  Finnigin !  " 

Whin  Finnigin  got  that  frum  Flannigan 
He  blushed  rosy-rid,  did  Finnigin. 
An'  he  said :    "  I'll  gamble  a  whole  month's  pay 
That  ut'll  be  minny  an'  minny  a  day 
Befure  sup'rintindint — that's  Flannigan — 
Gits  a  whack  at  that  very  same  sin  agin. 
Frum  Finnigin  to  Flannigan 
Repoorts  won't  be  long  agin." 

ii 


Wari  day  *0n:th'.siction  av  Finnigin, 

Qn  thj  rctad  sup'rintinded  be  Flannigan, 

•A  ra-aii*giV-ev  way  On.  A  bit  av  a  currve 

An'  some  cyars  wint  off  as  they  made  th'  shwarrve. 

"  They's  nobody  hurrted,"  says  Finnigin, 

"  But  repoorts  must  be  made  t'  Flannigan." 

An'  he  winked  at  McGorrigan 

As  married  a  Finnigin. 

He  wuz  shantyin'  thin,  wuz  Finnigin, 

As  minny  a  railroader's  been  agin, 

An'  'is  shmoky  ol'  lamp  wuz  burrnin'  bright 

In  Finnigin'  shanty  all  that  night — 

Bilin'  down  's  repoort,  wuz  Finnigin. 

An'  he  writed  this  here :    "  Musther  Flannigan : — 

Off  agin,  on  agin, 

Gone  agin. — Finnigin." 


12 


HOMESICK 

Ah,  my  hand  is  mighty  hungry  for  a  tiny,  sweaty  fist ; 
Both  my  lips  are  fairly  famished  to  be  warmly,  wetly 

kissed ; 

And  my  arm  is  simply  starving  for  a  fuzzy  little  head 
That,  when  I  am  home  and  happy,  loves  to  use  it  for  a 

bed. 

Can  it  be  that  once  I  fretted  at  a  peevish  midnight  wail 
That  will  seem  like  sweetest  music  when  I've  hit  the 

homeward  trail? 

Was  it  I  who  put  her  from  me  with  a  feeling  of  relief — 
I  whose  soul  is  sick  to  see  her,  be  the  absence  long  or 

brief? 

Was  it  I  that  grew  impatient  when  she  made  me  drop 

my  pen 
And  consume   a  precious  hour  soothing  her  to  sleep 

again? 
Would  I  think  that  hour  wasted  could  I  swathe  and 

soothe  her  now 
As  I  fondly  play  I'm  smoothing  out  the  puckers  from  her 

brow? 

Could  I  feel,  when  next  I  hold  her,  all  that  now  I  feel 

and  know, 

Could  I  then  recall  the  yearning  as  my  lonely  way  I  go — 
But  alas !    When  Love  possesses,  Love  is  blind  and  deaf 

and  dumb, 
Saving  his  appreciation  till  the  heart  with  grief  is  numb. 


AFTER  THE  QUARREL 

I  ain't  mad  no  more  wif  you; 
Le's  play  horse — 'at's  what  le's  do ! 

Say — when  you  was  mad  wif  me 
Ju  fink  I  was  mad  wif  you? 
Well,  I  wasn't;  only  dest 
At  th'  first— w'y,  all  th'  rest 
Of  th'  time  I  fought  "  O  gee ! 
Wisht  he  wasn't  mad  wif  me!  " 
An'  that  there's  as  true  as  true. 

When  I's  settin'  on  our  steps 
While  ago — I  know  you  seen — 
What  ju  fink  I's  tryin'  t'  do, 
When  I  made  a  face  at  you? 
Fought  I'd  make  you  laff  an'  then 
We  'ud  be  good  friends  aden — 
What  did  you-all  s'pose  I  mean? 

When  you  stumped  your  toe  agin 
That  ol'  piece  o'  busted  brick 
We'd  been  playin'  wif,  an'  cried, 
I  dest  tried  an'  tried  an'  tried, 
But  I  couldn't  say  a  word — 
Anyway,  if  you'd  'a'  heard 
How  I  felt,  you'd  made  up,  quick. 

Wasn't  it  a  long  time,  though, 
'At  you  wouldn't  speak  t'  me 
An'  I  wouldn't  speak  t'  you? 
It  was  mostly  half -past  two 
When  you  wanted  what  I  had 
An'  I  sassed  you  back  so  bad, 
An'  it's  now  most  half -past  free ! 

I  ain't  mad  no  more  wif  you — 
Le's  play  horse — 'at's  what  le's  do ! 


MORNING  GLORY  AND  VIOLET 

A  lusty  morning  glory  grew  beside  a  rustic  porch ; 
Each  blossom  flaunted  to  the  breeze  a  flaring  crimson 

torch. 

He  boasted  o'er  the  Violet  that  grew  beside  his  feet 
With  tiny  purple  blossoms  and  a  perfume  gently  sweet. 
He  said :     "  Within  my  shadow  you  will  ne'er  be  seen 

by  men — 
They'll  note  my  glorious  trumpets  and  they'll  love  me 

only,  then." 

The  Violet  said  nothing ;  but  with  sweetly  scented  smile 
Put  forth  her  dainty  blossoms  and  her  deep  green  leaves 

the  while; 
Her  fragrance  reached  the  porch  seat  where  the  master 

of  the  place 
Sat  dreaming,  and  a  tender  smile  crept  softly  o'er  his 

face. 
He   murmured:     "Ah — a   violet!    I   catch   its   perfume 

rare!" 
Then  pushed  aside  the  tall  vine's  leaves  and  found  her 

cowering  there. 

The  jealous  Morning-glory  heard  the  words  the  master 

spoke 

Unto  the  humble  Violet,  and  then  his  proud  heart  broke. 
O,  boasters,  ere  ye  scoff  and  rail  o'er  small  things  at  your 

feet, 
Know  well  that  if  the  humblest  life  exhale  a  perfume 

sweet, 
The  scent  will  reach  the  nostrils  of  the  Master  of  the 

place, 
And  win  reward  abundant  in  the  smile  upon  His  face. 


THE  BUILDER 

"  Let  us  build  a  nation's  highway,"  said  a  Nervous  Little 

Man. 
Took  he  then  his  puny  pencil  and  he  planned  a  petty 

plan. 
(He  was  little,  he  was  scrawny;  he  was  anything  but 

great 
As  we  reckon  them  that  cavil  in  the  councils  of  the 

State.) 

But  he  made  the  pregnant  earth 
Travail  with  the  iron's  birth; 
Made  the  cringing  woods  bring  timber — many  million 

dollars  worth, 
Bade  the  mines  yield  coal  and  money ;  and  he  forced  his 

fellowmen 
Bend  above  the  pick  and  shovel  till  their  bodies  ached 

again. 

Rose  the  Hill  and  rose  the  Mountain,  in  his  line  of  march 
that  lay, 

And  they  smiled  in  pompous  power  as  they  blocked  his 
onward  way. 

(He  was  little,  he  was  scrawny ;  how  could  Hill  or  Moun- 
tain know 

God  who  made  them  was  within  him,  to  dispel  each 
fright  or  foe?) 

Then  he  hacked  the  Hill  in  two 
And  he  tooled  a  tunnel  through, 

And  he  corkscrewed  down  the  Mountain  as  the  homing 
cattle  do. 

Hordes  of  helpers  hewed  before  him,  bended  ever  to  his 
will. 

Now  we  loll  and  laugh,  who  scamper  through  the  Moun- 
tain and  the  Hill. 

16 


"Brothers,  let's  be  quit  of  Distance,"  said  the  Restless 
Little  Man. 

"  Let  us  have  a  journey  ended  ere  of  old  such  things 
began." 

(He  was  little,  he  was  scrawny,  he  was  nothing  to  the 
sight, 

But  the  God  who  shaped  the  soul  of  him  had  surely 
shaped  it  right.) 

Then  he  straightened  out  each  squirm 
And  he  made  the  roadbed  firm, 

Helped  by  many  a  cunning  craftsman  with  many  a  puzz- 
ling term. 

Thus  he  drew  huge  cities  nearer  to  each  other  by  a  day — 

When  the  builder  points  his  pencil,  God  alone  can  say 
him  nay. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LIVER 

Now  his  pa  had  died  of  liver  on  the  Okeechobee  river, 

And  his  mother's  liver'd  killed  her  in  the  west. 
Then  a  sister  warmly  cherished  had  been  taken  ill  and 
perished, 

Though  she'd  coddled  up  her  liver  just  her  best. 
Next  his  brother  Bill  was  taken  with  a  sort  of  inward 
achin' 

That  required  no  skilled  physician  to  discern 
Was  a  case  of  plain  cirrhosis,  by  the  quickest  diagnosis — 

William  kicked  the  well-known  cooperage  in  turn. 

Now  this  liver-haunted  fellow  with  a  face  as  jaundice 

yellow 

From  the  constant  fear  that  racked  him  day  and  night, 
Set  before  himself  the  question  how  to  obviate  con- 
gestion 

And  to  keep  his  liver  well  and  working  right, 
Then  he  learned  from  Dr.  Slaughter  that  the  danger  lay 

in  water, 

And  that,  once  he  found  a  spring  to  suit  his  case, 
He  could  live  on,  infinitum,  just  to  fool  folks  or  to  spite 

'em, 
Till  the  skin  was  dried  like  parchment  on  his  face. 

So  he  sought  with  ardent  vigor  'mid  the  northern  win- 
ters' rigor, 

So  he  sought  amid  the  tropics  further  south, 
And  he  never  saw  a  puddle  but  he  said  "  Perchance  this 

mud'll 

Be  the  stuff  to  break  my  liveristic  drouth." 
Yes  he  tried  'em  all,  be  jabers,  never  ceasing  from  his 

labors 

Till  he  found  the  sort  of  water  he  required ; 
And  he  settled  there  to  stay  till  his  distant,  dying  day, 
While  he  boasted,  in  a  way  to  make  you  tired. 

18 


Happened  down  in  Old  Virginia,  did  this  yarn  I'm  bound 

to  spin  ye, 

And  this  liver-liberated  fellow  stayed 
Till,  by  tanking  up  discreetly,  he  had  cured  himself  com- 
pletely 

Of  the  symptoms  that  had  rendered  him  afraid. 
To  a  century  and  fifty  he  was  feeling  nice  and  nifty, 

But  his  body  grew  exhausted — there's  the  rub. 
Yet  his  liver,  when  he  croaked,  with  such  deathlessness 

was  soaked, 
That  they  took  it  out  and  killed  it  with  a  club ! 


ME  AN'  PAP  AN'  MOTHER 

When  I  was  a  little  tike 

I  set  at  th'  table 
'Tween  my  mother  an*  my  pap; 

Eat  all  I  was  able. 
Pap  he  fed  me  on  one  side, 

Mammy  on  th'  other. 
Tell  ye  we  was  chums,  them  days — 

Me  an'  pap  an'  mother. 

Sundays,  we'd  take  great,  long  walks 

Through  th'  woods  an'  pasters; 
Pap  he  al'ays  packed  a  cane, 

Mother'n  me  picked  asters. 
Sometimes  they's  a  sister  'long, 

Sometimes  they's  a  brother; 
But  they  al'ays  was  us  three — 

Me  an'  pap  an'  mother. 

Pap  he  didn't  gabble  much; 

He!'  his  head  down,  thinkin'. 
Didn't  seem  t'  hear  us  talk, 

Nor  th'  cow-bells  clinkin'. 
Love-streaks  all  'peared  worried  out 

'Bout  one  thing  er  nuther; 
Didn't  al'ays  understand  pap — 

That's  me  an'  mother. 

I  got  big  an'  went  away ; 

Left  th'  farm  behind  me. 
Thinkin'  o'  that  partin'  yit 

Seems  t'  choke  an'  blind  me. 
'Course  I'd  be  all  safe  an'  good 

With  m'  married  brother, 
But  we  had  to  part,  us  three — 

Me  an'  pap  an'  mother. 

20 


Hurried  back,  one  day ;  found  pap 

Changed,  an'  pale  an'  holler; 
Seen  right  off  he'd  have  to'  go — 

Where  we  couldn't  foller. 
Lovin'  streaks  all  showed  up  then — 

Ah,  we  loved  each  other! 
Talked  fast,  jest  t'  keep  back  tears — 

Me  an'  pap  an'  mother. 

Pap  he's — dead ;  but  mother  ain't ; 

Soon  will  be,  I  reckon; 
Claims  already  she  can  see 

Pap's  forefinger  beckon. 
Life  hain't  long,  I'll  go  myself 

One  these  days  eruther, 
Then  we'll  have  good  times  agin, 

Me  an'  pap  an'  mother. 

Purtier  hills  we'll  have  t'  climb, 

Saunterin'  'long  old  fashion, 
Hear  th'  wild  birds  singin'  'round; 

See  th'  river  splashin' — 
If  God  'd  only  let  us  three 

Be  'lone,  like  we'd  ruther, 
Heaven'd  be  a  great  ol'  place 

For  me  an'  pap  an'  mother. 


21 


MODERN  MEDICINE 

I  went  to  a  modern  doctor  to  learn  what  it  was  was 
wrong. 

I'd  lately  been  off  my  fodder,  and  life  was  no  more  a 
song. 

He  felt  of  my  pulse  as  they  all  do,  he  gazed  at  my  out- 
stretched tongue; 

He  took  off  my  coat  and  weskit  and  harked  at  each 
wheezing  lung. 

He  fed  me  a  small  glass  penstalk  with  figures  upon  the 
side, 

And  this  was  his  final  verdict  when  all  of  my  marks  he'd 
spied : 

"  Do  you  eat  fried  eggs?    Then  quit  it. 

You  don't?    Then  hurry  and  eat  'em, 
Along  with  some  hay  that  was  cut  in  May — 

There  are  no  other  foods  to  beat  'em. 
Do  you  walk?    Then  stop  instanter — 

For  exercise  will  not  do 
For  people  with  whom  it  doesn't  agree — 
And  this  is  the  rule  for  you : 
Just  quit  whatever  you  do  do 

And  begin  whatever  you  don't; 
For  what  you  don't  do  may  agree  with  you 
As  whatever  you  do  do  don't." 

Yea,  thus  saith  the  modern  doctor,  "  Tradition  be  double 

durned ! 
What  the  oldsters  knew  was  nothing  compared  to  the 

things  we've  learned. 
There's  nothing  in  this  or  that  thing  that's  certain  in 

every  case 

Any  more  than  a  single  bonnet's  becoming  to  every  face. 
It's  all  in  the  diagnosis  that  tells  us  the  patient's  fix — 
The  modern  who  knows  his  business  is  up  to  a  host  of 

tricks. 

22 


Do  you  eat  roast  pork?    Then  stop  it. 

You  don't?    Then  get  after  it  quickly. 
For  the  long-eared  ass  gives  the  laugh  to  grass 

And  delights  in  the  weed  that's  prickly. 
Do  you  sleep  with  the  windows  open? 

Then  batten  them  good  and  tight 
And  swallow  the  same  old  fetid  air 
Through  all  of  the  snoozesome  night. 
Just  quit  whatever  you  do  do 

And  do  whatever  you  don't; 
For  what  you  don't  do  may  agree  with  you 
As  whatever  you  do  do  don't. 


I  USED  TO  THINK  I  LOVED  YOU 

I  used  to  think  I  loved  you  when,  amid  the  roses  fair, 
I  saw  the  shadows  glimmer  in  your  dusky,  dark-brown 

hair; 
When  'neath  the  film-flecked  firmament  I  watched  the 

sunlight  play 
Within  your  hazel  eyes  that  said  more  than  your  lips 

dared  say. 
I  used  to  think  I  loved  you  when  we  murmured  soft  and 

low 
Beside  your  friendly  hearthstone  in  the  dying  embers' 

glow; 
When  hand  in  hand  we  ventured  on  the  very  verge  of 

love 
And  when  your  voice  far  sweeter  seemed  than  coo  of 

woodland  dove. 

I  used  to  think  I  loved  you  when  we  sat  beside  the  sea 
And  watched  the  waves  beat  madly  while  the  foolish 

heart  of  me 
Was  beating   still   more   madly   'gainst   the   crumbling 

shores  of  speech 
And  both  concealed  the  longing  that  was  in  the  heart  of 

each. 
I  used  to  think  I  loved  you  when  we  wandered  'neath 

the  moon 
Whose  semi-tropic  glow  was  like  a  silvered,   softened 

noon; 
When  on  my  arm  your  light  hand  lay  and  thrilled  me 

through  and  through — 
Those  days  I  hungered  always  for  the  sight  and  sound 

of  you. 

I  even  thought  I  loved  you  on  that  night  when  first  your 

kiss 
Sent  bounding  through  my  being  such  a  wondrous  wave 

of  bliss; 

24 


When  first  within  my  starving  arms  I  clasped  you  to  my 

breast 

And  felt,  deep  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  a  sense  of  new- 
found rest. 

But  O  when  in  the  tiny  home  your  love  has  made  for  me 
I  hear  your  blessed  accents  and  your  love-lit  face  I  see, 
I  know  that  in  those  early  days  my  love  was  but  a 

dream — 
So  vastly,  grandly  sweeter  does  this  later  loving  seem. 


PATRIOTIC  REMNANTS 

The  evening  of  the  Fourth  has  came, 

But  where  is  Willie's  ear? 
The  one  that's  left  looks  quite  the  same, 

But  where  is  Willie's  ear? 
This  morning  when  he  went  to  play, 
With  cannon-crackers  all  the  day, 
His  lugs  were  twain ;  now,  where,  I  pray 

Is  Willie's  other  ear? 

Upon  the  Fourth  the  sun  has  set, 

But  where  is  Albert's  nose? 
We've  all  our  little  darlings,  yet, 

But  where  is  Albert's  nose? 
When  to  the  fray  he  went  at  morn, 
With  matches,  punk  and  powder-horn, 
He'd  all  the  things  with  which  we're  born- 

Now  where  is  Albert's  nose? 

The  gloaming's  started  in  to  gloam, 

But  where  is  Charlie's  leg? 
The  rest  of  Charles  has  all  came  home, 

But  where  is  Charlie's  leg? 
The  man  who  drave  the  ambu-lance 
Said  laughingly,  "  No  more  he'll  dance, 
But  'twill  be  cheaper  buying  pance  " — 

Ah,  where  is  Charlie's  leg? 

Thus  every  Fourth  our  darlings  lose 

Some  features  or  a  limb ; 
'Tis  'most  enough  to  cause  the  blues 

And  make  life  hard  and  grim. 
But  many  be  their  limbs  or  few 
Compared  with  those  that  on  them  grew, 
We'll  shout  for  Yankee-doodle-do 

From  dawn  till  dusktide  dim ! 

26 


PUSH— DON'T  KNOCK 

Upon  the  door  I  saw  a  sign ; 

I  cried,  "  A  motto !    And  it's  mine !  " 

A  wiser  thing  I  never  saw — 

No  Median  or  Persian  law 

Should  be  more  rigidly  enforced 

Than  this,  from  verbiage  divorced — 

It's  logic  firm  as  any  rock — 

"  Push— don't  knock." 

'Twas  simply  meant  to  guide  the  hand 
Of  him  who  wished  to  sit  or  stand 
Within  the  unassuming  door 
This  weight  of  sermonry  that  bore. 
'Twas  never  meant  to  teach  or  preach, 
But  just  to  place  in  easy  reach 
The  ear  of  him  who  dealt  in  stock — 
"  Push— don't  knock." 

Yet  what  a  guide  for  life  was  that — 
Strong,  philosophical  and  pat ; 
How  safe  a  chart  for  you  and  me 
While  cruising  o'er  life's  restless  sea ; 
Push,  always  push,  with  goal  in  view : 
Don't  knock — avoid  the  hammer  crew; 
This  rule  will  save  you  many  a  shock : 
"  Push— don't  knock." 

When  on  that  door  I  see  the  sign, 
I  say  "  Great  motto,  you  are  mine." 
No  stronger  sermon  ever  fell 
From  human  lips;  no  sage  could  tell 
The  hothead  youth  more  nearly  how 
To  point  alway  his  vessel's  prow ; 
There  are  no  wiser  words  in  stock : 
"  Push— don't  knock." 


27 


"  NOW  I  LAY  ME." 

(The  Chicago  Mothers'  Council  officially  condemned  the  use  of 
the  old-fashioned  childhood  bedtime  prayer  "  Now  I  Lay  Me  Down 
to  Sleep.") 

They  announce  that  "  Now  I  Lay  Me  "  is  officially  con- 
demned, 
And  that  all  the  turgid  tide  of  years  those  "  mother  "  folk 

have  stemmed; 
They  have  put  the  little  bedtime  plea  that  you  and  I  were 

taught 
On  the  list  of  ancient,  outworn  things  that  should  be  set 

at  naught. 
Ah,  how  foolish  were  the  mothers  God  supplied  to  you 

and  me ! 
And  how  rudderless  the  boat  in  which  He  sent  us  forth 

to  sea ! 
For  the  poor,  misguided  creatures  with  the  mother-love 

so  deep 
Were  unwise  enough  to  teach  us  "  Now  I  Lay  Me  Down 

to  Sleep." 

Think  a  bit — that  white-robed  figure  kneeling  by  the  bed 

is  you ; 

And  the  words  your  lips  are  saying  fall  as  soft  as  twi- 
light dew 
On  your  spirit ;  "  Now  I  lay  me,  blessed  Father,  down  to 

sleep ; 
Through  the  hours  of  dark  I  pray  thee  my  defenseless 

soul  to  keep. 
If  thou  needest  me,  my  Father,  ere  at  morning  time  I 

wake, 
Thine  I  am,  and  hence  I  pray  thee  to  Thyself  my  soul  to 

take." 
Reverence  and  sweet  submission,  faith  that  God  was 

watching  there — 

28 


Yet  those  "  Mother "  folk  condemn  it  as  a  senseless 
pagan  prayer! 

Think  of  all  the  men  and  women  who  were  reared  to 
kneel  each  night 

By  the  knee  of  some  good  mother,  just  at  early  candle- 
light, 

And  repeat  the  words  familiar  while  within  each  little 
breast 

Lived  a  faith  that  God  would  keep  them  through  the  wel- 
come time  of  rest; 

Think  of  all  the  things  those  "  mothers  "  of  the  present 
day  have  failed 

To  adjust  to  modern  science — 'tis  a  thing  to  be  bewailed. 

Still  a  lot  of  common  parents  having  common  sense,  will 
keep 

Teaching  baby  lips  to  utter  "  Now  I  Lay  Me  Down  to 
Sleep." 


29 


UNDER  THE  WILLOWS 

I  see  the  dear  old  farmhouse  and  the  swards  that  round  it 

lay; 
I  see  the  apple  orchard  and  the  gray-brown  ricks  of 

hay; 
I    see   the   currant   bushes   fringing   fragrant   fields   of 

wheat — 

Ay,  all  the  rustic  pictures  mem'ry  brings  to  me  are  sweet, 
E'en  to  the  hazel  bushes  that  I  robbed,  each  glowing 

Fall; 

But  just  beyond  the  culvert  was  the  dearest  spot  of  all. 
'Twas  there  the  grand  old  willows,  that  I  still  distinctly 

see, 
Stood,  sifting  golden  sunshine  through  their  lacy  tops  for 

me. 

There,  prone  beside  the  singing  stream,  I  lay  and  gazed 

in  awe 
At  all   the   weird,   wide   wonder-world   my   wondering 

child-eyes  saw; 

Between  me  and  a  turquoise  sky  with  alabaster  clouds 
The  spider  sailors  spun  their  strands  and  furled  their 

filmy  shrouds; 

I  saw  in  that  enchanted  realm  of  azure,  green  and  white, 
The  golden-coated  orioles  that  twittered  love's  delight 
While  fashioning  a  dwelling-place  to  rear  their  unborn 

brood, 
That  soon  would  spread  their  yellow  beaks  and  clamor 

for  their  food. 

Then,  gazing  past  the  willow  world  with  youth's  un- 
bridled eyes, 

I  turned  each  silver  cloud  into  a  palace  in  the  skies; 

Each  palace  held  a  stately  king  that  none  but  I  could 
see — 

The  bits  of  cloud  that  broke  away  were  chariots  sent  for 
me. 

30 


Sometimes  a  snow-white  fairy  clad  in  shining  robes  of 

mist 
Would  beckon  to  me  with  her  wand — I  never  could 

resist ; 
Then  off  to  Fairyland  we'd  float,  and  wondrous  sights 

we'd  see — 
Till  some  one  came  and  woke  me  up  to  call  me  in  to  tea. 

I  love  that  dear  old  farmhouse  and  the  swards  that  round 

it  lay; 

I  love  the  apple  orchard  and  the  gray-brown  ricks  of  hay ; 
The  currant-bordered  pathway  fringing  fragrant  fields  of 

wheat — 

Ay,  all  the  rustic  pictures  mem'ry  brings  to  me  are  sweet, 
E'en  to  the  stunted  hazels  that  I  robbed  each  flaming 

Fall; 

But  just  beyond  the  culvert  is  the  dearest  spot  of  all : 
There  stand  the  gnarled  old  willows  that  I  still  distinctly 

see, 
And  sift,  as  then,  the  sunshine  through  their  lacy  tops  for 

me. 


A  FOOTBALL  HERO 

From  the  jaws  of  the  jungles  of  Jayville  the  Jasper  hiked 

out  of  his  lair; 
The  barn-breath  breathed  balm  from  his  bootlets,  the 

hay-germs  had  homes  in  his  hair; 
His  mouth  hung  ajar  like  a  fly-trap,  each  hand  was  as  big 

as  a  ham; 
His  freckles  a  leopard-like  legion,  his  verdancy  far  from 

a  sham. 
His  clothes  were  those  mother  had  made  him,  his  mop 

had  been  mowed  'round  a  crock; 
Each  wilted  congressional  gaiter  was  rimmed  with  a 

neglige  sock. 
When  Reuben  strayed  in  with  his  satchel,  and  eyes  you 

could  snare  with  a  rope, 

A  "  ha-ha  "  arose  from  the  campus  that  strangled  the  last 
of  his  hope. 

But  Reuben  was  big — he  was  husky;  his  legs  were  like 

saplings  of  oak ; 

His  arms  were  like  steel,  and  he'd  often  made  two-year- 
old  steers  take  a  joke ; 
His  back  was  the  back  of  a  Samson — gnarled,  knotted, 

and  hard  as  a  rock ; 
His  neck  would  have  served  as  a  bumper  to  ward  off  a 

switch-engine's  shock; 
His   unpadded   shoulders   were   hillocks   of   sinew   and 

muscle  and  bone ; 
His  chest  was  a  human  Gibraltar,  his  voice  had  a  Vul- 

canoid  tone. 
His  prowess  had  never  been  tested  quite  up  to  its  limit, 

at  home, 
Although  he  had  romped  with  the  yearlings  and  guided  a 

plow  through  the  loam. 

The  boss  of  the  'leven  was  speechless  when  Rusticus 
loomed  on  the  scene. 

32 


What  mattered  the  fact  he  was  shabby?    What  mattered 

the  fact  he  was  green? 
Could  ever  a  team  get  a  line-up  't  would  stand  for  a 

centre  like  that? 

The  ranks  of  the  foe  would  evanish  ere  one  could  articu- 
late "Scat!" 
He  rushed  to  the  Reuben  and  nailed  him,  and  led  him 

away  to  a  room 
Where  trainers  and  rubbers  proceeded  to  marvel  and 

fondle  and  groom ; 
And  when,  at  the  close  of  a  fortnight,  the  wonder  was 

trotted  to  sight, 
The  grand-stand  and  bleachers  went  daffy  and  howled 

themselves  hoarse  with  delight. 

What  next?  Ask  the  worried  kodaker  who  skirmished 
in  vain  for  a  shot ! 

The  Reuben-led  phalanx  proceeded  to  score,  with  a  loose- 
jointed  trot ; 

The  foe  faded  fast  as  a  snowflake  in  Tophet's  most  tropi- 
cal pit, 

While  Rusticus  romped  through  the  rout  like  a  mastodon 
having  a  fit. 

And  when  all  the  team  that  opposed  him  lay  mangled  and 
dead  on  the  field, 

The  mob  went  as  mad  as  a  Mullah,  and  hooted  and  bel- 
lowed and  squealed. 

Then  Rusticus,  bordered  with  lasses  who  called  him  a 
hero  and  prince, 

Pranced  off  with  his  halo  of  glory,  and  hasn't  been  worth 
a  cuss  since. 


33 


A  BABY  THE  SIZE  OF  MINE 

When  I  see  somebody's  baby  just  about  the  size  of  mine, 

As  I  prowl  about  the  country  with  my  little  special  line, 

There's  the  queerest  sort  of  feeling  at  the  bottom  of  my 
throat 

And  the  train  bells  and  the  whistles  take  a  sad  and  sob- 
bing note. 

Both  my  arms  begin  to  hunger  for  the  load  that's  always 
light, 

And  I'd  give  my  soul  to  hear  her  calling  "  Daddy,"  in  the 
night. 

But  I've  got  to  gulp  my  grieving  nor  betray  the  slightest 
sign, 

When  I  see  somebody's  baby  just  about  the  size  of  mine. 

When  I  see  a  sturdy  youngster  just  about  the  size  of 
mine, 

I  am  less  the  rugged  oak-tree,  more  the  clinging,  ten- 
drilled  vine; 

Then  I  know  the  strength  attributed  to  man  is  half  a 
myth, 

And  the  storm-defying  bole  becomes  the  bruised  and 
bended  withe. 

Then  I  know  the  ones  I  cherish  are  the  guardians  of  me, 

While  my  world  would  scarcely  recognize  the  picture  it 
would  see 

Should  it  happen  to  discover  in  my  eyes  the  brimming 
brine 

When  I  see  a  little  baby  just  about  the  size  of  mine. 


34 


YOUR  IMPRESS 

Now  what  is  your  niche  in  the  mind  of  the  man  who  met 

you  yesterday? 
He  figured  you  out  and  labeled  you ;  then  carefully  filed 

you  away. 
Are  you  on  his  list  as  one  to  respect,  or  as  one  to  be 

ignored? 
Does  he  think  you  the  sort  that's  sure  to  win,  or  the  kind 

that's  quickly  floored? 
The  things  you  said — were  they  those  that  stick,  or  the 

kind  that  fade  and  die? 
The  story  you  told — did  you  tell  it  your  best?    If  not,  in 

all  conscience,  why? 
Your  notion  of  things  in  the  world  of  trade— did  you 

make  that  notion  clear? 
Did  you  make  it  sound  to  the  listener  as  though  it  were 

good  to  hear? 
Did  you  mean,  right  down  in  your  heart  of  hearts,  the 

things  that  you  then  expressed? 
Or  was  it  the  talk  of  a  better  man  in  clumsier  language 

dressed? 
Did  you  think  while  you  talked?     Or  but  glibly  recite 

what  you  had  heard  or  read? 
Had  you  made  it  your  own — this  saying  of  yours — or 

quoted  what  others  said? 
*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          x          * 

Think — what  is  your  niche  in  the  mind  of  the  man  who 

met  you  yesterday 
And  figured  you  out  and  labeled  you ;  then  carefully  filed 

you  away? 


35 


MADE  OVER 

She  had  seen  him  and  she  liked  him;  he  was  single — so 
was  she; 

She  grew  interested  in  him—such  a  case  you  often  see. 

He  reciprocated  promptly,  and  it  gratified  the  maid — 

In  a  thousand  modest  manners  her  delight  the  maid 
displayed. 

He  was  certain  that  he  pleased  her,  to  the  turning  of  a 
hair, 

And  was  sure  that  e'en  his  failings  seemed  to  her  as  vir- 
tues rare. 

But  within  her  heart  the  maiden  softly  murmured,  day 
and  night, 

"  With  a  little  making-over  he  would  be  exactly  right." 

Week  by  week  the  two  kept  meeting;  day  by  day  their 

friendship  grew; 
Each  was  certain  that  the  other  had  a  loyal  heart  and 

true. 
He  was  sure  she  was  perfection,  sure  she  thought  the 

same  of  him, 
And  the  trust  he  thought  she  carried  kept  the  man  in 

moral  trim. 
His  belief  in  her  perfections  made  him  ask  the  maid  to 

wed, 
And  she  gave  no  hint  of  doubting  in  the  tender  "  Yes  " 

she  said. 
Yet  this  thought  was  interwoven  with  her  new-found 

love's  delight: 
"  With  a  little  making  over  he  would  be  exactly  right." 

They  were  wed.    She  made  him  over.    He's  another  chap 

to-day ; 

But  in  lopping  off  his  failings  other  things  were  cut  away. 
He  has  lost  the  faults  she  censured,  but  the  scars  are 

plain  to  see, 

36 


And  she'd  like  to  have  him  back  again  just  like  he  used  to 

be. 
For  she's  learned  a  costly  lesson:     That  when  God  has 

made  a  man 
He  is  founded,  framed  and  finished  on  a  pretty  careful 

plan. 
And  this  one-time  maiden  murmurs  in  her  sorrow,  day 

and  night : 
"  If  I  hadn't  made  him  over  he  would  be  exactly  right." 


37 


WHICH  FORK? 

Some  persons  yearn  for  knowledge 

Of  the  kind  you  get  at  college ; 
Some  long  for  musty  facts  from  days  agone ; 

Some  hunger  to  be  knowing 

What  the  future  will  be  showing, 
While  others  watch  the  present  humming  on. 

But  when  I'm  called  out  to  dinner 

By  some  plutocratic  sinner 
Who  was  always  in  the  social  swimming  pool, 

I  would  give  a  whole  diploma, 

E'en  my  college-bred  aroma, 
I  would  give  it  all  and  gladly  be  a  fool — 

I  would  give  my  evening  clothes, 

And  the  joy  that  ebbs  and  flows, 
When  I  hear  the  mellow  popping  of  the  cork, 

Were  I  not  alway  forgetting 

One  small  thing  that  keeps  me  fretting — 
If  I  only  could  recall 

"  Which  fork?  " 

There's  quite  a  row  beside  me, 

But  the  wo  of  woes  betide  me, 
If  ever  I  can  get  them  sorted  out ; 

For  each  one  has  its  duty 

Just  as  each  its  dainty  beauty — 
The  oyster  one  is  three-tined,  short  and  stout; 

But  the  rest — they  have  me  guessing 

In  a  manner  most  distressing, 
And  I'd  almost  trade  my  hope  of  future  joy 

For  a  chance  to  eat  again 

In  the  farmhouse  dull  and  plain 
With  the  tools  I  used  to  handle  when  a  boy. 

For  I'm  sure  I'll  never  learn, 

Though  I  yearn  and  yearn  and  yearn, 

38 


Though  I  spend  a  dozen  seasons  in  New  York, 

Just  which  trident's  next  in  line ; 

So  from  soup  to  nuts  and  wine 
I  am  haunted  by  the  thought, 
"Which  fork?" 


39 


WHEN  SYLVIA  SWATHES  HERSELF 

When  Sylvia  swathes  herself  in  stuffs  that  show  her 
sylphsome  shape 

She  makes  the  murm'ring  mermaids  put  on  bolts  and 
bolts  of  crape ; 

She  gives  the  nymphs  and  houris  cards  and  spades  and 
beats  them  out ; 

And  when  she  starts  to  drift  up  street  with  drapings 
pulled  about, 

The  shades  of  Venus,  Hebe  and  Diana  weep  and  wail, 

While  Daphne — yes,  and  Psyche — pad  themselves  with- 
out avail; 

And  Juno— O  forget  her! — is  a  gnarled,  ungainly  ape, 

When  Sylvia  swathes  herself  in  stuffs  that  show  her 
sylphsome  shape. 

When  Sylvia's  swathed  in  silken  stuffs  that  show  her 

swanlike  shape 
She's  naught  but  curves  of  beauty  from  her  French  heels 

to  her  nape; 

The  sirens  of  mythology,  Medusa  and  the  rest, 
Are  all  outclassed  by  Sylvia  when  she  dons  her  level  best. 
A  gawky  thing's  the  heroine  of  Knighthood's  time  of 

bloom, 
And  Alice  bred  in  Old  Vincennes  would  recognize  her 

doom 

If  she  should  see  our  Sylvia  in  her  clinging  auto-cape 
When  she  has  swathed  herself  in  stuff  that  shows  her 

sylphsome  shape. 

When  Sylvia's  swathed  in  silken  stuffs  that  show  her 

sylphsome  shape 
The  strands  of  weeping  willow  and  the  tendrils  of  the 

grape 
Go  hide  themselves  for  clumsiness;  the  swallow  on  the 

wing 

40 


Looks  awkward  as  a  camel  trying  on  the  highland  fling ; 
The  wild  gazelle  that  gambols  o'er  the  plains  is  put  to 

shame, 
And  swayings  of  the  Persian  dance  seem  commonplace 

and  tame. 

In  vain  do  other  maidens  try  to  learn  to  dress  and  drape, 
When  Sylvia's  swathed  in  silken  stuffs  that  show  her 

sylphsome  shape. 


MY  SECRET 


Though  you  be  wiser  far  than  I, 

I  can  not  envy  you. 
The  busy  world  has  countless  ways 

I  may  not  learn,  'tis  true. 
Yet  one  grand  truth  I've  won  at  last, 
From  which  the  lore  of  all  the  past 
And  all  the  coin  that  e'er  was  cast 

Could  never  make  me  part: 
I've  found  the  secret  door  that  leads 

Into  the  human  heart. 

Mythology's  a  blur  to  me, 

All  history's  a  blank — 
I  know  not  who  won  Waterloo, 

The  allies  or  the  Frank; 
Yet  while  I  know  the  hidden  road 
Down  which  the  tides  of  care  have  flowed 
That  lent  a  human  heart  its  load, 

Content  I'll  play  my  part, 
And  travel  oft  the  way  that  leads 

Into  the  human  heart. 

For  he  who  finds  the  path  by  which 

The  heartaches  come  and  go, 
Who  speaks  the  sympathetic  word 

That  lightens  human  wo, 
Will  aye  be  loved  by  those  who  feel 
His  tenderness  about  them  steal ; 
From  him  they  care  not  to  conceal 

The  tears  that  fain  would  start. 
I'm  glad  I  know  the  door  that  leads 

Into  the  human  heart. 


42 


GRINNING  PHOTOGRAPHS 

She  had  a  picture  taken  with  her  wedding  harness  on — 

It  surely  did  look  good  enough  to  eat ; 
It  made  a  splendid  half-tone  for  the  common  herd  to  con ; 

They  cried:  "  Who  e'er  saw  anything  so  sweet?  " 
They  had  a  stunning  carbon  made  and  hung  it  on  the  wall 

Of  what  they  called  the  parlor,  in  their  cozy  little  nest, 
And  there  it  hung  and  grinned  at  them  and  never  stopped 
at  all— 

It  grew  to  be  a  regulation,  trouble-breeding  pest. 

It  grinned  when  they  were  angry  and  it  grinned  when 

they  were  sad ; 

It  grinned  when  they  were  worried  or  distraught ; 
It  grinned  when  they  were  pious  and  it  grinned  when 

they  were  bad; 

It  grinned  when  all  the  air  seemed  trouble-fraught. 
It  seemed  to  grin  the  hardest  when  dear  wifey  looked  the 

worst — 
Dark  mornings,  when  her  frowsy  hair  and  sullen  eyes 

were  frights; 
And  when  her  fiery  temper  made  her  feel  as  though  she'd 

burst, 

It  grinned  and  grinned  ten  thousand  thousand  devilish 
delights. 

'Twas  awful,  in  the  centre  of  a  bad  old  fam'ly  fuss, 

To  have  her  hubby  point  at  it  and  sneer; 
'Twas  awful,  when  her  feelings  were  all  tangled  in  a 

muss, 

To  have  him  call  that  photograph  a  dear. 
So  one  day  in  his  absence  she  got  busy  with  an  axe; 
She  jerked  that  picture  off  the  wall  where  it  so  long 

had  been ; 
She    chopped   it    into   slivers   with    some   well-directed 

whacks — 
She'll  never  have  another  picture  taken  with  a  grin ! 

43 


TOMORROW 

My  life  has  reached  the  sunset  way ; 

'Mid  the  twilight  shadows  deep 
The  tender  love  of  my  Father's  voice 

Is  lulling  my  soul  to  sleep. 
My  empty  arms  are  hungering 

For  the  forms  once  sheltered  there, 
But  the  Father  has  taken  them  all  away — 

They  needed  a  kindlier  care. 

One  night  when  my  life  was  young  and  strong, 

I  was  crooning  a  lullaby 
To  my  sweet,  wee  tot  three  summers  old, 

When  the  baby  began  to  cry 
For  the  dollies  my  mother-hands  had  made, 

And  I  soothed  her  childish  sorrow 
With  the  words :     "  Your  babies  are  put  away ; 

You  may  have  them  again,  tomorrow." 

And  now,  as  I  travel  the  sunset  road 

'Mid  the  twilight  soft  and  deep, 
While  my  empty  arms  are  starving 

For  the  forms  once  hushed  to  sleep, 
The  Father  in  love  bends  over  me 

And  there's  hope  instead  of  sorrow 
As  he  says :     "  Your  babies  are  safe  with  me ; 

You  may  have  them  again — tomorrow." 


44 


THE  MUSIC  THAT  CARRIES 

I've  toiled  with  the  men  the  world  has  blessed, 

And  I've  toiled  with  the  men  who  failed; 
I've  toiled  with  the  men  who  strove  with  zest, 

And  I've  toiled  with  the  men  who  wailed. 
And  this  is  the  tale  my  soul  would  tell, 

As  it  drifts  o'er  the  harbor  bar: 
The  sounds  of  a  sigh  don't  carry  well, 

But  the  lilt  of  a  laugh  rings  far. 

The  men  who  were  near  the  grumbler's  side, 

O,  they  heard  not  a  word  he  said ; 
The  sound  of  a  song  swept  far  and  wide, 

And  they  hearkened  to  that  instead. 
Its  tones  were  sweet  as  the  tales  they  tell 

Of  the  rise  of  the  Christmas  star — 
The  sounds  of  a  sigh  don't  carry  well, 

But  the  lilt  of  a  laugh  rings  far. 

If  you  would  be  heard  at  all,  my  lad, 

Keep  a  laugh  in  your  heart  and  throat; 
For  those  who  are  deaf  to  accents  sad 

Are  alert  to  the  cheerful  note. 
Keep  hold  on  the  cord  of  laughter's  bell, 

Keep  aloof  from  the  moans  that  mar ; 
The  sounds  of  a  sigh  don't  carry  well, 

But  the  lilt  of  a  laugh  rings  far. 


45 


THE  CROOKED  WINDOW  PANE 

I  been  an'  had  the  measles  an' 

My  mommy  kep'  me  in, 
She  said  I  might  go  blind,  she  did, 

An'  never  see  agin. 
So  I  ist  stayed  an'  stayed  an'  stayed 

An'  never  cared  a  grain, 
Cause  I  had  fun  a-lookin'  froo 

Our  crooked  winder  pane. 

One  way  I  bent  my  head  an'  looked, 

Our  fence  wuz  awful  tall ; 
An'  when  I  moved  an'  looked  some  more 

'Twas  hardly  there  at  all. 
'Nen  stoopin'  lower,  I  c'd  make 

A  treetop  touch  the  sky — 
'Nen,  lookin'  froo  th'  uver  place, 

'Twas  ist  two  inches  high. 

An'  people — they  wuz  funniest  fings; 

For  when  they  hurried  past 
They  all  wuz  tall  and  slim  at  first, 

An'  dumpy  at  th'  last. 
I'd  holler  out  an'  laugh  my  best, 

Till  they'd  look  back  to  see, 
An'  nen  go  on,  a-wonderin', 

How  they  had  tickled  me. 

My  mommy  is  the  best,  I  guess, 

'At  any  boy  has  had ; 
For  when  I  told  her  my  new  game 

She  says,  "  All  right,  my  lad." 
An'  when  I'd  showed  her  ist  what  place 

Out  on  th'  grassy  plot, 
She  fed  my  kitten  an'  my  pup 

Right  on  that  very  spot. 

46 


If  ever  I  have  little  boys, 

An'  live  in  some  big  town, 
An'  they  come  home  all  hot  an'  sick, 

An'  measles  gets  'em  down, 
I'll  have  it  fixed  beforehand,  so 

They'll  never  care  a  grain, 
Cause  ev'ry  winder  in  my  house 

Must  have  a  crooked  pane. 


47 


THE  UNIVERSAL  HABIT 

I  saw  her  go  shopping  in  stylish  attire, 

And  she  felt 

Of  her  belt 

At  the  back. 

Her  step  was  as  free  as  a  springy  steel  wire, 
And  many  a  rubberneck  turned  to  admire 

As  she  felt 

Of  her  belt 

At  the  back. 

She  wondered  if  all  those  contraptions  back  there 
Were  fastened  just  right — 'twas  her  unceasing  care ; 

So  she  felt 

Of  her  belt 

At  the  back. 

I  saw  her  at  church  as  she  entered  her  pew, 

And  she  felt 

Of  her  belt 

At  the  back. 

She  had  on  a  skirt  that  was  rustly  and  new, 
And  didn't  quite  know  what  the  fast'nings  might  do; 

So  she  felt 

Of  her  belt 

At  the  back. 

She  fidgeted  'round  while  the  first  hymn  was  read; 
She  fumbled  about  while  the  first  prayer  was  said. 

Oh,  she  felt 

Of  her  belt 

At  the  back. 

Jack  told  her  one  night  that  he  loved  her  like  mad, 
And  she  felt— 
For  her  belt 
At  the  back. 

48 


She  didn't  look  sorry,  she  didn't  look  glad; 

Just  looked  like  she  thought  "  Well,  that  wasn't  so  bad!  " 

As  she  felt 

For  her  belt 

At  the  back. 

And — well,  I  don't  think  'twas  a  great  deal  of  harm, 
For  what  should  the  maiden  have  found  but  Jack's  arm, 

When  she  felt 

For  her  belt 

At  the  back? 


49 


SOME  ONE  HEARS 

(To  the  members  of  the  American  Press  Humorists.) 

Brother,  listen  here  a  little  to  the  song  of  one  who  knows 
Why  the  ripple's  on  the  river  and  the  red  is  on  the  rose — 
One  to  whom  a  voice  has  whispered  (while  his  heart 

stood  still  to  hear) 
Why  the  bloom  is  on  the  bramble,  why  love's  sunshine 

gilds  the  tear. 
Listen — 'tis  a  humble  message  brief  as  we  would  wish 

our  cares, 
Sweet   as   soft-played   twilight  music   stealing   o'er   us 

unawares. 
This  it  is :     The  richest  reaping  of  reward  your  toil  will 

bring 
When  you  think  nobody  listens  to  the  little  songs  you 

sing. 

'Tis  the  nightingale  imprisoned  in  the  fastness  of  a  cage 

Where  no  answering  philomela's  notes  his  pining  may 
assuage — 

His  the  song  that  sways  the  heartstrings  with  the  loneli- 
ness it  breathes, 

His  the  power  that  the  poet  hath  entwined  with  laurel 
wreathes. 

Crying  out  against  the  darkness,  praying  for  an  echoed 
call, 

In  a  thrilling,  throbbing  cadence  hear  his  pleadings  rise 
and  fall; 

So  God  lets  us  think  our  music  on  a  callous  world  we 
fling— 

Lets  us  feel  nobody  listens  to  the  little  songs  we  sing. 

Courage,  brothers;  while  a  clamor  from  the  busy  world 
may  rise 

50 


Filling  all  the  songless  spaces  'neath  the  overarching 

skies, 
While  we  feel  our  little  murmur  may  be  heard  by  none 

but  us, 
Sing — sing  on;  though  hearts  may  falter,  it  is  best  we 

labor  thus. 
Someone — here,   or  there,   or  yonder — hears  no   sound 

amid  it  all 

But  the  cadence  of  our  carols  as  they  bravely  rise  and  fall. 
And  the  very  hope  it  yearns  for  to  some  weary  soul  you 

bring 
While  you  fear  nobody  listens  to  the  little  songs  you 

sing. 


SHE  CALLED  MY  BLUFF 

She  called  my  bluff, 

Indeed  she  did. 
Since  then  the  truth 

Cannot  be  hid. 

I'd  made  the  usual  display 

Of  borrowed  virtues  day  by  day ; 

I'd  smiled  o'er  mishaps,  just  as  though 

My  disposish  were  always  so. 

I'd  strewed  my  money  without  stint, 

Of  poverty  dropped  ne'er  a  hint — 

You  know  the  rest ;  this  is  enough 

To  make  you  know  that  same  old  bluff. 

She  called  it,  though — 

Ah,  yes;  for  she 
Believed  it  all 

And  married  me ! 


SOURCES 

I  passed  a  stagnant  marsh  that  lay 

Beneath  a  reeking  scum  of  green, 
A  loathsome  puddle  by  the  way ; 

No  sorrier  pool  was  ever  seen. 
I  thought :     "  How  lost  to  all  things  pure 

And  clean  and  white  those  foul  depths  be."- 
Next  day  from  out  that  pond  obscure 

Two  queenly  lilies  laughed  at  me. 

I  passed  a  hovel  'round  whose  door 

The  signs  of  penury  were  strewn ; 
I  saw  the  grimed  and  littered  floor, 

The  walls  of  logs  from  tree-trunks  hewn. 
I  said :    "  The  gates  of  life  are  shut 

To  those  within  that  wretched  pen  " ; 
But,  lo !  from  out  that  lowly  hut 

Came  one  to  rule  the  world  of  men. 


53 


SONG  OF  THE  FREIGHT  CAR 

I'm  a  bumped  and  battered  freight  car  c>h  a  sidetrack  in 

the  yard; 

I  am  resting — resting  gladly,  for  my  life  is  cruel  hard, 
And  I  seldom  find  an  hour  when  I'm  soberly  at  home, 
For  I'm  usually  loaded  and  am  out  upon  the  roam. 
I've  been  shunted  in  Seattle,  I've  been  switched  in  Boston 

town; 
I've  been  stranded  in  St.  Louis,  where  I  saw  the  train 

crew  drown. 
I've  been  snowed  in  up  by  Denver,  I  was  wrecked  at 

Council  Bluffs, 
When  the  strike  was  in  Chicago  I  was  stoned  by  thugs 

and  toughs. 

I've  hauled  lumber  in  Wisconsin,  I  have  helped  move 

Kansas  wheat ; 
I  have  camped  within  the  stockyards  till  they  filled  me  up 

with  meat; 
I    have   brought   green   watermelons    from   the    sunny, 

sunny  South, 
While  the  darkies  gazing  at  me  'gan  to  water  at  the 

mouth. 
I  have  rumbled  o'er  the  Coast  Line  on  the  California 

shore, 
I  have  hauled  the  Lompoc  mustard  crop  and  Santa  Ana 

ore. 

I  have  been  from  Manitoba  down  to  Matagorda  Bay, 
While  on  every  trip  I've  traveled  by  the  longest,  slowest 

way. 

I  have  hauled  the  toil-scared  hobo  by  the  dozens  and  by 

ones; 
I  have  carried  honest  poor  men  in  my  longer  westward 

runs; 

54 


I  have  carried  fleeing  criminals  deep-buried  'neath  the 

corn 
That  from  off  the  rustling  ranches  to  the  greedy  mills  was 

borne. 
I  have  carried  knaves  from  justice,  I  have  carried  fools  to 

wealth, 
Hauled  the  hopeless  home  to  perish,  hauled  the  invalid  to 

health. 
I  have  stood  between  the  tourist  and  the  scenery  he 

thought 
Should  be  seen  from  sleeper  window  when  a  "  guide 

book  "  he  had  bought. 

I  have  often  lost  an  axle  when  the  train  was  wrecked,  and 
stood 

For  a  week  until  the  workmen  found  the  time  to  make  it 
good. 

I've  been  everywhere,  seen  all  things,  been  in  sunshine, 
rain  and  snow. 

I've  been  idle  for  a  fortnight,  then  for  months  upon  the  go. 

I'm  a  bumped  and  battered  freight  car  on  a  sidetrack  in 
the  yard ; 

There  are  chalk  marks  on  my  body — these  my  only  call- 
ing card. 

But  I  see  the  pony  engine  coming  for  me  on  the  fly — 

No  idea  where  I'm  going  or  what  for,  but — bump — good 
by! 


55 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  ALIEN 

I'm  an  alien — I'm  an  alien  to  the  faith  my  mother  taught 

me; 
I'm  an  alien  to  the  God  that  heard  my  mother  when  she 

cried ; 
I'm  a  stranger  to  the  comfort  that  my  "  Now  I  lay  me  " 

brought  me, 
To  the  Everlasting  Arms  that  held  my  father  when  he 

died. 
I  have  spent  a  life-time  seeking  things  I  spurned  when  I 

had  found  them ; 

I  have  fought  and  been  rewarded  in  full  many  a  win- 
ning cause ; 
But  I'd  yield  them  all — fame,  fortune  and  the  pleasures 

that  surround  them ; 

For  a  little  of  the  faith  that  made  my  mother  what  she 
was. 

I  was  born  where  God  was  closer  to  His  children,  and 

addressed  them 
With  the  tenderest  of  messages  through  bird  and  tree 

and  bloom ; 
I  was  bred  where  people  stretched  upon  the  velvet  sod  to 

rest  them, 
Where  the  twilight's  benediction  robbed  the  coming 

night  of  gloom. 
But  I've  built  a  wall  between  me  and  the  simple  life 

behind  me ; 
I  have  coined  my  heart  and  paid  it  for  the  fickle  world's 

applause ; 
Yet  I  think  His  hand  would  fumble  through  the  voiceless 

dark  and  find  me 

If  I  only  had  the  faith  that  made  my  mother  what  she 
was. 

56 


When  the  great  world  came  and  called  me  I  deserted  all 

to  follow, 
Never  knowing,  in  my  dazedness,  I  had  slipped  my 

hand  from  His — 
Never  noting,  in  my  blindness,  that  the  bauble  fame  was 

hollow, 
That  the  gold  of  wealth  was  tinsel,  as  I  since  have 

learned  it  is — 
I  have  spent  a  life-time  seeking  things  I've  spurned  when 

I  have  found  them ; 
I  have  fought  and  been  rewarded  in  full  many  a  petty 

cause, 
But  I'd  take  them  all — fame,  fortune  and  the  pleasures 

that  surround  them, 

And  exchange  them  for  the  faith  that  made  my  mother 
what  she  was. 


57 


SUCCESSFUL  OPERATIONS 

They  took  out  the  patient's  mazard,  chopped  his  ilium 

away; 

They  subtracted  his  appendix  and  his  largest  vertebra ; 
Ripped  his  liver  from  its  moorings  and  preserved  it  in  a 

bottle; 
Set  him  breathing  through  a  silver  quill  inserted  in  his 

throttle. 

In  the  lining  of  his  stomach  they  discerned  a  little  flaw — 
They  extracted  it;  replacing  with  a  throbbing  ostrich 

craw. 
Many  another  inward  trinket  they  removed  from  him 

beside — 
All  "  successful  operations,"  but  the  patient — blame  him ! 

—died. 

A  "  successful  operation,"  in  the  lingo  of  the  craft, 

Is  the  one  that  lets  them  excavate  your  person,  fore  and 

aft; 
Lets  them  make  a  cross-wise  section  of  the  gourd  that 

holds  your  brain ; 
Lets  them  whittle  out  the  fixings  they  declare  were  made 

in  vain. 
"What  a  dreadful  ignoramus  the  Creator  was!"  they 

sigh. 
"  All  mistakes  had  been  avoided,  were  He  wise  as  you  and 

I." 
Then  they  whet  their  little  scalpels,  lay  your  epidermis 

bare, 
And  with  carvings  quite  "  successful "  send  you  up  the 

golden  stair. 

O,  my  brother,  when  you  see  me  mussing  up  a  railroad 
track, 

58 


With  my  legs  and  lights  and  sweetbreads  piled  up  neatly 
on  my  back, 

Do  not  notify  a  surgeon — let  me  die  in  peace  or  pieces. 

I  am  wearied  out  with  reading  of  the  numerous  deceases 

That  have  come  when  so  "  successfully "  they  oper- 
ated on 

Some  poor  victim  who  had  swallowed  all  their  anaesthetic 
con. 

Gently — but  O,  surely ! — kill  me ;  while  I  fight,  with  fleet- 
ing breath, 

'Gainst  "  successful  operations "  that  result  in  certain 
death. 


59 


EGOTISM'S  ANTIDOTE 

When  ye  kind  o'  git  t'  thinkin' 

Ye're  th'  whole  endurin'  thing, 
When  ye  think  th'  world  must  have  ye 

Same's  a  kite  must  have  a  string, 
Then  it's  time  t'  fix  fer  dodgin' 

An'  begin  t'  look  around — 
'Cause  they's  somepin'  goin'  t'  hit  ye 

That'll  surely  take  ye  down. 

When  ye  git  t'  livin',  reg'lar, 

'Way  up  in  th'  upper  air, 
An'  when  folks  without  a  field-glass 

Couldn't  find  ye  anywhere, 
Then  it's  time  to  git  yer  parachute 

An'  see  't  it's  workin'  right, 
While  ye  glance  tow'rd  terry  firmy 

Pickin'  out  a  spot  t'  light 

'Cause  most  folks  is  lots  like  water — 

Finds  their  levels  off  an'  on, 
Though  they  'vaporate  occasional' 

An'  we  wonder  where  they've  gone ; 
But  they're  bound  t'  light  back  somehow, 

Fog  er  rain,  er  coolin'  dew — 
An'  when  I  say  "  folks,"  I  reckon 

That's  includin'  me  and  you. 


60 


STAMINA  VERSUS  BLUFF 

Once  I  knew  a  brilliant  laddie, — you  have  known  the  very 

kind, — 

Who  began  at  such  a  pace  he  left  the  other  lads  behind ; 
Problems  he  could  solve  instanter  made  us  others  groan 

and  sweat, 
And  in  envy  he  was  labeled,  "  teacher's  precious  little 

pet": 

But,  in  later  life,  the  figure  that  he  cut  was  sad  to  see, 
For  he  soon  was  far  to  rearward  e'en  of  stupid  you  and 

me. 
'T  seemed  the  talents  we  had  envied  lacked  the  lasting 

sort  of  stuff, 
And  he  didn't  have  the  stamina  to  follow  up  his  bluff. 

Brilliant  starts  are  far  more  common  than  a  brilliant 

finish  is ; 
Rockets   roar, — the   falling   handles   make   a   faint   and 

feeble  fizz; 
Deer,  when  flushed,  do  feats  of  running  that  would  take  a 

fellow's  breath, 
Yet  the  man  who  knows  his  quarry  simply  walks  the  deer 

to  death. 
Pluck  and  never-ending  courage  are  the  things  that  help 

us  most, 
And  the  winner's  oft  the  one  who  didn't  waste  his  breath 

to  boast. 
Plod  and  pray,  but  plod  while  praying,  be  the  roadway 

smooth  or  rough ; 
Thus  you  cultivate  the  stamina  to  follow  up  your  bluff. 


61 


THE  SEWING-MACHINE  DRAWER 

They  sing  of  the  oddities  commonly  found 

In  pockets  of  boys ;  or  the  things  in  a  mound, 

Unearthed  by  some  archaeological  freak 

Beside  a  small  Buckeye  or  Michigan  creek ; 

You  know  of  the  stores  where  there's  naught  you  could 

wish 

That  isn't  at  hand — from  a  desk  to  a  dish. 
But  what  are  all  these  to  the  truck  to  be  seen 
Snarled  up  in  the  drawer  of  a  sewing  machine? 

A  lot  of  "  attachments,"  though  nobody  knows — 
Unless  it's  the  agent — where  one  of  them  goes ; 
Some  bobbins  of  thread  tangled  up  in  a  mess, 
A  piece  of  the  lining  of  somebody's  dress ; 
A  paper  of  needles,  a  caster  or  two, 
A  penknife  and  scissors,  an  old  baby  shoe — 
With  everything  else  that  is  not  to  be  seen 
Except  in  the  drawer  of  a  sewing  machine. 

Deep  down  in  the  tomb  of  old  Rameses  II, 

They  found  a  few  trinkets  on  which  they'd  not  reckoned ; 

In  burial  places  of  sachems  are  hid 

'Most  any  old  thing,  if  you  lift  off  the  lid. 

We  know  what  milady's  hand-satchel  contains — 

A  muddle  sore-puzzling  to  masculine  brains ; 

But  these  are  all  thrown  in  the  shadow,  I  ween, 

By  what's  in  the  drawer  of  a  sewing  machine. 


62 


COUNTING  THE  COST 

To  make  one  little,  golden  grain 
Requires  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
The  hoarded  richness  of  the  sod, 

And  God. 

To  form  and  tint  one  dainty  flower 
That  blooms  to  bless  one  fleeting  hour 
Doth  need  the  clouds,  the  skies  above, 

And  love. 

To  make  one  life  that's  white  and  good, 
Fit  for  this  human  brotherhood, 
Demands  the  toil  of  weary  years — 

And  tears. 


THE  FIDGETS 

I'm  got  th'  fidgets ;  when  I  go  t'  bed 

(I  sleep  wif  Billy),  I  ist  scratch  my  head 

An'  squirm  around  an'  git  th'  covers  mixed 

Till  Billy  says,  "  Aw,  goo'ness  sakes !    Git  fixed." 

An'  when  I  try  t'  tell  him  how  it  was, 

He  says,  "  Aw,  I'll  git  up  an'  slap  your  jaws!  " 

I  wake  up  in  th'  night  most  froze  t'  deff 
An'  hear  Bill  sayin'  fings  nunder  his  breff. 
'Cause  somehow  all  th'  cover's  on  th'  floor, 
An'  Bill  says  he  won't  sleep  wif  me  no  more — 
Dogged  if  he  will ;  an'  when  he  swears  that  way, 
I  freaten  'at  I'll  tell  our  ma  next  day ! 

Nen  Billy  he  ist  helps  me  snuggle  down 

An'  tells  me  I'll  be  nicest  boy  in  town 

'F  I  shouldn't  tell,  an'  when  I  say  "  I  won't," 

He  grits  'is  teef  an'  says  "  You  better  don't!  " 

If  they's  a  fidget  doctor  anywhere 

I'm  goin'  t'  see  him,  if  my  ma  don't  care. 


64 


THE  CHILDREN 

This  world's  a  rare  and  joyous  place 

For  those  who  deem  it  so, 
With  smiles  enough  for  every  face — 

This  is  no  vale  of  woe. 
But  yet,  when  all's  been  done  and  said, 

Some  little  children  creep, 
At  cuddling  time,  unkissed  to  bed 

And  sob  themselves  to  sleep ! 

Their  daddy's  off  at  work  somewhere, 

Their  mother's  tired  and  worn, 
Both  burdened  down  with  carking  care 

From  earliest  break  of  morn. 
Each  love-starved  young  one  on  the  list 

Has  troubles  by  the  heap, 
Yet  each  must  go  to  bed  unkissed 

And  sob  himself  to  sleep ! 

Oh,  world  of  sunshine  mixed  with  storm, 

Oh,  world  of  tears  and  joy, 
Oh,  world  of  frozen  hearts  and  warm, 

Oh,  world  of  man  and  boy, 
Less  were  your  sorrow,  less  your  dread 

If,  when  night's  shadows  creep, 
Each  little  tad  went  kissed  to  bed 

And  smiled  himself  to  sleep ! 


A  MODEST  PRAYER 

I  would  not  linger  alway,  Lord,  upon  this  earth  below ; 
I'd  gladly  cut  my  tether  rope  and  swiftly  skyward  go, 
There's  lots  of  things  don't  suit  me,  yet  I  see  no  way  to 

fix  'em ; 
Each  time  my  plans  get  good  and  ripe  some  other  fellow 

picks  'em. 
I've  toiled  and  schemed  and  acted  square — well,  just  as 

square's  I  could, 

But  some  old  way  or  other  things  don't  get  a-going  good. 
Yet,  ere  I  plume  my  crippled  wings  and  start  to  hike  me 

hence, 
Lord,  let  me  linger  long  enough  to  get  a  grain  o'  sense ! 

From  childhood  on  to  middle  life  I've  not  accomplished 

much; 
I've  fooled  around  and  made  a  mess  of  everything  I'd 

touch; 
I've  balled  things  up  to  fareyouwell  until  at  times  I've 

been 
Ashamed,  though  all  alone,  to  think  what  comp'ny  I  was 

in. 

And,  worst  of  all,  I've  never  made  a  point-blank  fizzle  yet 
From  which  a  single  little  drop  of  comfort  I  could  get, 
It's  always  been  my  own  fool  fault — no  use  to  make 

pretense, 
Please  don't  transplant  me,  Lord,  until  I've  learned  a 

little  sense ! 

Some  other  chaps,  who  went  to  school  with  me  when  I 

was  young, 
Who  seemed  to  have  still  less  of  brains  though  more  of 

leg  and  lung, 
Have  stumbled  into  things  that  paid  and  made  their  little 

pile 
While  I,  with  all  my  striving,  never  got  within  a  mile 

66 


Of  anything  worth  having— do  you  wonder  I  am  sore 

And  hate  to  give  it  up  until  Fve  tried  a  little  more? 

And  then,  besides,  you'd  never  want  an  angel  half  so 

dense — 
Lord  let  me  linger  here  until  I've  learned  a  little  sense ! 


67 


THE  COMMON  HERD 

"  The  common  herd  " — God  bless  us,  everyone ! — 

We  common  folk  who  toil  from  sun  to  sun ; 

We  who  our  brother's  hardships  understand 

Nor  strive  to  hide  the  callous  on  each  hand ; 

We  who  in  countless  thousands  throng  the  street, 

Oft  silent  though  in  sympathy  we  greet ; 

Without  our  help  what  great  thing  has  been  done? 

"  The  common  herd  " — God  bless  us,  everyone ! 

"  The  common  herd  " — that  flinches  not  from  toil 
Through  freezing  winters,  or  when  summers  broil ; 
That  bravely  treads  its  round  from  day  to  day 
And  clothes  and  feeds  itself  on  meager  pay; 
That  comes  more  near  content  than  they  who  boast 
A  daily  income  that  would  feed  a  host ; 
That  sweetly  sleeps  when  each  day's  toil  is  done — 
"  The  common  herd  " — God  bless  us,  everyone ! 


68 


AMBITION'S  AIDS 

Patience  to  drudge  in  obscurity, 
Patience  to  smile  in  adversity, 
Patience  to  wait  for  prosperity ; 
Courage  to  do  what  you  think  you  can, 
Courage  to  use  aye  the  better  plan, 
Courage  to  yield  to  a  better  man ; 
Love  for  the  work  you  attempt  to  do, 
Love  for  the  weak  ones  that  cling  to  you, 
Love  of  the  kind  that  is  ever  true — 
Patience,  and  Courage,  and  Love. 


69 


A  RECOLLECTION 

Straight  out  of  a  ragtime  medley,  the  girl  in  the  flat  above 
Leaped   into   an   old-time   church  tune   that   told   of  a 
Father's  love. 


Back  into  the  past  I  followed,  my  soul  with  a  mem'ry 
thrilled, 

My  eyes  with  a  tear-mist  blinded,  my  heart  with  a  sweet- 
ness filled ; 

Back  into  the  care-free  boytime  when  faith  was  a  blessed 
thing — 

Back  where  I  had  heard  my  parents  that  quavery  church- 
tune  sing. 

I  saw,  with  the  eyes  of  dreaming,  the  little  frame  church 
that  stood 

At  turn  of  the  country  roadway  that  bordered  a  beechen 
wood; 

The  sun,  through  the  tree-boughs  filtered,  is  mottling  the 
shingled  roof 

And  trembling,  as  though  in  rev'rence  the  elements  held 
aloof. 

The  door  is  ajar.    I  enter — then  pause  till  the  prayer  is 

done; 

The  voice  is  a  voice  familiar — he  prays  for  an  errant  son. 
Then  up  from  their  knees  arising,  both  sinner  and  saint 

join  in 
The  words  of  that  quaint  old  church-tune — the  trebles  so 

high  and  thin, 
The  tenors  with  raucous  raspings,  the  bassos  with  husky 

growl, 
The  baritones  wild,  uncertain,  that  critics  would  call  "  a 

howl"; 
But  yet — from  my  heart  I  say  it,  although  it  may  seem 

absurd — 
That  music  was  far  the  sweetest  of  all  I  have  ever  heard. 

70 


'Twas  nasal  in  tone,  I  grant  it ;  'twas  wrong  in  its  time,  I 

ween; 
'Twas  awkwardly  phrased;  the  organ  was  little  and  old 

and  mean. 
But  there  in  the  Sabbath  something  that  reigns  in  a 

country  church, 

Where  travels  the  ship  of  Zion  with  never  a  heel  or  lurch, 
With  faith  in  the  God  above  me,  ere  yet  had  the  world 

defiled, 
With  trust  in  a  gold-paved  heaven — the  trust  of  a  clean- 

souled  child — 
If  I  could  go  back — God  pity ! — and  kneel  while  my  father 

prayed ; 
Could  join  in  the  hymn  whose  echo  the  girl  in  the  flat  had 

played — 


Straight  back  into  ragtime  medley  the  girl  in  the  flat 

above 
Leaped  out  of  the  old-time  church-tune  that  told  of  a 

Father's  love. 


AT  SLEEPY  TIME 

My  voice  is  like  the  filing  of  a  saw ; 

My  friends  flee  when  I  agitate  my  jaw ; 
I  can  empty  any  room  with  my  rusty  basso  boom, 

And  my  vocalizing  breaks  the  nuisance  law. 
But  there's  one — she's  pretty,  too;  and  as  wise,  some 
ways,  as  you, 

Who  thinks  my  voice  the  finest  in  the  land — 
She  comes  with  fist  in  eye  begging,  "  Papa,  baby  bye !  " 

When  the  sleepy-man  is  scattering  his  sand. 

When  the  evening  romp  is  winding  to  a  close 

And  my  little  baby's  cheek  with  laughter  glows, 
When  her  night-robe  from  the  press  has  replaced  her  day- 
time dress, 

Then  the  little  darling  rubs  her  eyes  and  nose, 
And  she  comes  with  dimpled  hands  and  in  mute  appeal- 
ing stands 

As  she  says :     "  I  dot  some  somefin'  in  my  eye ; 
Take  me  up  a  'ittle  bit,  'cause  I'm  s'eepy  I  can  get, 

An'  O  p'ease,  sing  to  me,  papa — baby  bye." 

Yes,  my  voice  is  like  the  filing  of  a  saw, 

And  my  friends  are  fewer  when  I  use  my  jaw; 
I  have  emptied  many  a  room  with  my  raucous  basso  boom 

And  my  vocalizing  cracks  the  nuisance  law. 
But  while  that  one,  sweet  and  true,  thinks  my  voice  as 
good  as  new, 

I'll  not  envy  any  singer  in  the  land ; 

For  she  comes  with  fist  in  eye,  begging,  "  Papa,  baby 
bye," 

When  the  sleepy-man  is  scattering  his  sand. 


72 


BABY'S  FAVORITE  RESORT 

They  talk   of   sea-shore  havens   and   the   mountain-top 

hotels ; 
They  prate  of  quiet  country  lanes  where  peace  in  plenty 

dwells ; 
They  speak  of  winter-comfort  in  the  Southland  and  the 

West— 
The  hollow  of  my  mother's  arms  I'm  mighty  sure's  the 

best. 

They  sing  of  lakeside  places  where  'tis  cool  in  summer- 
time; 

They  boast  of  restful  harbors  in  some  distant  foreign 
clime ; 

They  seek  the  falls  in  springtime  and  the  springs  in  early 
fall— 

I  know  a  spot  on  mother's  arm  that  is  the  best  of  all. 

The  journey  thither  costs  me  but  a  fretful  cry  or  two; 
The  time   it   takes   is   nothing — in   a   trice   the   trip   is 

through. 
The  service  there  is  perfect  and  the  food  is  quite  the 

best— 
I  know  no  place  that's  finer  than  my  mother's  arm,  for 

rest. 


73 


BELIEVE 

Believe,  and  make  the  world  believe,  your  jaw  is  set  to 

win; 

Believe  (belief's  contagious),  that  your  ship  is  coming  in; 
B~elieve  that  every  failure  's  brought  about  by  lack  of  grit ; 
Believe  that  work  's  a  pleasure  if  you  buckle  into  it ; 
Believe  there  's  help  in  hoping,  if  your  hope  is  backed  with 

will; 

Believe  the  prospect's  fairer  from  the  summit  of  the  hill ; 
Believe,  with  all  your  power,  that  you're  sure  of  winning 

out; 
Believe,  keep  on  believing :  they  are  brothers, — Death  and 

Doubt. 

Believe, — not   as   the   dreamer,   with  his  listless   hands 

a-swing, — 

Believe,  with  muscles  rigid  and  life's  battle  flag  a-fling ; 
Believe  God  doesn't  always  wait  until  we  cry  to  Him, 
But  blesses  of tener  the  hand  that's  fighting  with  a  vim ; 
Believe,  with  him  of  old,  that  all  things  come  to  them  that 

wait, 
Then,  while  you're  waiting,  hustle  at  a  doubly  strenuous 

rate; 

Believe  that,  in  this  life,  we  get  our  sternly  just  deserts; 
Believe  the  world  is  partial  to  the  man  that  hides  his 

hurts. 

Believe  the  clouds  have  only  veiled — not  blotted  out, — the 

sky; 
Believe   there's   sweeter   sunshine   for  the   blessed   by- 

and-by ; 
Believe  the  blackest  dark  proclaims  the  speedy  dawn  of 

day; 
Believe  your  joy's  but  waiting  till  you  drive  the  dumps 

away; 

74 


Believe   the   nights   are   nothing   to   the   days   that   lie 

between ; 
Believe  there  's  much  that's  better  than  you've  ever  heard 

or  seen ; 
Believe  that — not  alone  your  sin, — your  good  will  find  you 

out; 
Believe ;  keep  on  believing :  they  are  brothers, — Death  and 

Doubt. 


75 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  RETROSPECT 

When  I  met  her,  wooed  and  won  her,  in  the  time  of  bud 

and  bloom, 
There  were  dainty  little  dimples  in  her  cheeks  and  in 

her  chin; 
In  her  sweet  brown  eyes  the  lovelight  said  I'd  met  my 

blessed  doom, 
And  my  foolish  heart  went  pounding  till  it  made  a 

mighty  din. 
That  was  happy  years  on  years  ago ;  our  love  is  still  the 

same 
As  it  was  among  the  roses  when  she  gave  herself  to 

me; 
She   declares   she's   ne'er   regretted   that   she   took   my 

humble  name, 

Though  she  now  is  wearing  wrinkles  where  the  dim- 
ples used  to  be. 

Life  with  me's  been  such  a  burden  that  she's  lost  her 

dimples  now, 
And  their  former  situations  each  with  wrinkles  are 

defined ; 
There  are  crow-tracks  'round  her  patient  eyes,  and  on 

her  haloed  brow 
Cruel  footprints  of  our  common  cares  are  intricately 

lined. 
Yet  to  me  she's  still  the  maiden  of  the  time  of  bud  and 

bloom, 
And  her  cheeks  are  filled  with  roses  such  as  tempt  the 

honey-bee ; 
Still  I   feel  the  thrill  that  filled  me  when  I  read  my 

blessed  doom, 

And  her  wrinkles  are  the  dimples  that  they  always 
were  to  me. 


Some  sweet  day,  adown  the  valley  leading  to  the  sunset- 
land, 
When  the  buds  and  blooms  are  withered  and  life's 

wintry  sky  is  gray, 

We  will  take  each  other  reverently,  gently,  by  the  hand — 
Through  love's  silence  sweet  as  music  we  will  softly 

steal  away. 
We  will  find  a  land  of  roses,  where  the  sun  will  always 

shine, 
Where  'tis  always  bud  and  blossom-time  for  lovers 

such  as  we ; 
I  shall  read  again  that  story  as  her  brown  eyes  smile  to 

mine — 

And  her  wrinkles  will  be  dimples  through  eternity,  for 
me. 


77 


CONTRASTS 

The  man  who  boozes  hardest  gets  the  praise  when  he 

reforms; 
The  man  who's  been  the  coldest  feels  the  gladdest  when 

he  warms ; 
The  man  who's  been  the  wettest  feels  the  finest  when 

he's  dried; 

A  baby's  laugh  is  sweeter  when  we  know  it  lately  cried ; 
The  balky  horse  that  goes  will  get  the  credit  every  time ; 
The  clock  that  stops  the  oftenest  gives  out  the  sweetest 

chime; 
The   naughtiest   of   sinners   gets   the   glory   when   he's 

saved ; 
The  man  that's  often  stubbly  gets  the  compliments  when 

shaved. 

The  train  that's  called  the  slowest  gets  the  headlines 

when  it  speeds; 

The  stingy  man  wins  laurels  when  financially  he  bleeds; 
The  sickly-looking  athlete  sets  the  bleachers  fairly  wild, 
And  people  rave  when  ugly  folks  produce  a  handsome 

child; 

The  student  who  is  dumber  than  the  very  dullest  ox, 
Gets  credit,  when  he  wakens,  with  the  shrewdness  of  a 

fox; 
The  fool  who's  bright  by  accident  gets  credit  for  the 

brains, 
WAnd  healthy  folks  who  sicken  have  the  terriblest  of  pains. 

The  seed  that  lay  the  longest  in  the  ground,  with  ne'er  a 

sprout, 

We  raved  about  the  hardest  when  it  finally  came  out; 
The  book  in  which  the  author  claimed  to  put  the  most  of 

soul 
Came  back  upon  the  publishers  and  left  them  in  the  hole ; 

78 


The  eye  in  which  a  chunk  of  dirt  has  lodged  for  half  a 

day 
Feels  better  than  the  other  when  you've  gouged  the  dirt 

away. 
In  fact,  the  subject's  endless,  and  you'll  have  to  guess 

the  rest, 
But  lines  we  think  the  weakest  often  please  the  public 

best. 


79 


CONVINCED 

I  have  listened  to  agnostics  since  my  childhood  days  o' 

faith 
Till  th'  trust  my  mother  taught  me  seemed  as  fleetin'  as 

a  wraith ; 
I  have  shed  th'  light  o'  reason  on  th'  Bible  tales,  an' 

thought 
That  th'  mirricles  it  told  about  could  never  have  been 

wrought. 
I  have  proved  beyond  a  question  that  such  doin's  hadn't 

been — 
But  when  I  set  down  t'  read  'em,  I  believe  'em  all  agin. 

I  have  heard  it  proved  b'  science  that  the  sun-delayin' 

stunt 

That  is  credited  to  Joshua  's  an'  error;  you  may  hunt 
Through  th'  volumes  o'  biology  frum  frontispiece  t'  end 
F'r  th'  fish  that  swallowed  Jonah — but  she  isn't  there,  m' 

friend. 

That  th'  masonry  o'  Jericho  should  tumble  at  th'  toot 
Of  a  lot  o'  sheepish  head-gear  is  a  tale  at  which  they  hoot. 
But  although  th'  things  I  mention  seem  preposterously 

thin, 
When  I  set  an'  read  'em  over  I  believe  'em  all  agin. 

Take  th'  one  about  where  Samson  with  th'  jawbone  of  a 
mule 

Tackled  thousands  o'  Philistines  with  this  funny  fightin' 
tool; 

That  there  tale  of  Neb'chadnezzar  goin'  grazin'  like  a 
steer, 

Would  impress  the  careless  hearer  as  at  least  a  trifle 
queer ; 

While  that  one  about  that  donkey  rode  by  Balaam  speak- 
in'  out — 

That  un's  quite  as  hard  a  story  to  believe— er  just  about. 

80 


T'  be  brief,  they's  lots  o'  stories  has  a  world  o'  queerness 

in, 
But  when  readin'  of  m'  Bible  I  believe  'em  all  agin. 

'Tain't  a  matter  of  conjecture,  it's  a  certainty,  y'  see — 

Wonderfuller  things  has  happened  t'  sich  dubs  as  you  an' 
me; 

There's  our  mothers  still  a-lovin'  us  through  all  these 
fruitless  years — 

Yep,  I'll  stop  it  ef  ye  think  that  I'm  a-tappin'  ye  fer  tears. 

Nature's  doin'  things  each  minute  with  a  lot  more  won- 
ders in, 

So  I  set  an'  read  m'  Bible  an'  believe  it  all  agin. 


81 


DRESSIN'  BY  THE  FIRE 

Men  goes  around  a-claimin'  they're  so  big  an*  brave  an* 

strong, 

An'  strangers  to  th'  weaknesses  that  rightfully  belong 
T'   women-folks  an'   children — ust  to  make   that  bluff 

m'self 

Afore  I  took  an'  laid  a  lot  o'  false  pride  on  th'  shelf. 
But  now  I'm  willin'  to  admit  that  every  foolish  whim 
That  clings  to  kids  an'  women  with  a  grip  that's  mighty 

grim — 

I've  got  it;  an'  I  envy  folks  that  justs  sets  down  t'  cry 
Instead  o'  hoardin'  all  th'  hurt  for  heart-ache  by  an'  by. 
An'  mornin's — hate  t'  own  it,  'cause  it's  nothin'  to 

admire — 
I'd  like  some  one  t'  lug  me  out  an'  dress  me  by  th'  fire ! 

They's  times  when  men  with  families  feels  'most  like 

givin'  up — 

Th'  stiddy  pull  for  years  an'  years  t'  drag  in  bite  an'  sup 
An'  just  'bout  half  enough  t'  wear,  has  lots  o'  sameness 

in; 
An'  sometimes  'tain't  much  easier  for  t'  bear  than  'tis  t' 

grin. 

Sich  fellers  needn't  tell  me  that  they  never  feei  a  thing 
Like  havin'  some  one  take  'em  in  their  arms  an9  sing  an' 

sing 
Th'  old-time  melodies  that  lulled  their  childish  heads  t' 

sleep— 
'Twould  make  th'  next  day's  climbin'  seem  not  half  so 

rough  nor  steep. 

But  'twouldn't  do,  I  reckon,  if  I'd  raise  up  to  inquire 
How  many'd  like  t'  be  lugged  out  an'  dressed  beside  th' 

fire? 

Some  day  we'll  all  be  babies  once  agin,  as  like  as  not — 
Leastways   He  said  "Lest  ye  become" — ye'll  have  a 
harder  lot. 

82 


Folks  has  a  right  t'  figger  on  what  all  th'  scripters  means, 
An*  common  folks  can  wonder  just  as  good  as  kings  and 

queens. 

It's  my  guess  that  in  heaven  all  us  women-folks  an'  men 
That's  starved  to  death  for  lovin',  wishin'  we  was  kids 

again, 

Will  be  took  up  an'  cuddled  in  th'  Everlastin'  Arms 
An'  lullabied  so  sound  asleep  that  all  the  world's  alarms 
Can't  wake  us ;  an'  I'm  bettin',  when  we  jine  th'  heavenly 

choir, 
We'll  all  git  carried  out  an'  dressed  beside  th'  parlor  fire. 


A  SONG  OF  HOPE 

I  ain't  been  along  th'  road  as 

Fur  as  some, 
But  she's  kep'  a-gittin'  better 

As  I've  come. 

'Twill  be  better  still  next  year 
Sure  as  I'm  a-settin'  here — 
Lookin'  back  I'll  see  some  mountains 

I  have  clumb. 


WATCH  YOURSELF  GO  BY 

Just  stand  aside  and  watch  yourself  go  by; 
Think  of  yourself  as  "  he,"  instead  of  "  I." 
Note,  closely  as  in  other  men  you  note, 
The  bag-kneed  trousers  and  the  seedy  coat. 
Pick  flaws ;  find  fault ;  forget  the  man  is  you, 
And  strive  to  make  your  estimate  ring  true. 
Confront  yourself  and  look  you  in  the  eye — 
Just  stand  aside  and  watch  yourself  go  by. 

Interpret  all  your  motives  just  as  though 
You  looked  on  one  whose  aims  you  did  not  know. 
Let  undisguised  contempt  surge  through  you  when 
You  see  you  shirk,  O  commonest  of  men! 
Despise  your  cowardice;  condemn  whate'er 
You  note  of  falseness  in  you  anywhere. 
Defend  not  one  defect  that  shames  your  eye — 
Just  stand  aside  and  watch  yourself  go  by. 

And  then,  with  eyes  unveiled  to  what  you  loathe — 
To  sins  that  with  sweet  charity  you'd  clothe — 
Back  to  your  self -walled  tenement  you'll  go 
With  tolerance  for  all  who  dwell  below. 
The  faults  of  others  then  will  dwarf  and  shrink, 
Love's  chain  grow  stronger  by  one  mighty  link — 
When  you,  with  "  he  "  as  substitute  for  "  I," 
Have  stood  aside  and  watched  yourself  go  by. 


WE  OCCUPIED  A  BOX 

I've  been  to  see  a  lot  of  shows 

Since  I  forsook  the  farm, 
Including  some  that  folks  have  said 

Do  one  a  deal  of  harm. 
But  I  recall  one  where  I  missed 

All  risk  of  moral  shocks — 
The  one  in  which  I  occupied 

A  second-story  box. 

We  heard  the  curtain  rising,  and 

We  knew  it  had  begun ; 
And  when  we  saw  folks  leaving,  why, 

We  knew  the  thing  was  done. 
But  what  transpired  between  times — well, 

My  guesses  come  in  flocks, 
But  I  don't  know  for  certain,  for 

We  occupied  a  box. 

'Twas  halfway  to  the  roof,  where  we 

Could  see  the  pulleys  work, 
And  when  'twas  dark  we  faintly  saw 

Some  stage  hands  through  the  murk. 
But  when  the  show  was  at  its  height 

We  surely  got  our  knocks, 
For  we  were  safely  hidden  in 

That  second-story  box. 

The  lady  sitting  at  the  edge 

Which  overhung  the  crowd 
Could  see  the  footlights,  and  sometimes 

She  giggled  right  out  loud. 
And  then  we  knew  she'd  caught  a  glimpse 

Of  some  one  on  the  stage; 
But  that  was  all  our  bunch  could  learn, 

In  our  sequestered  cage. 

86 


We  got  to  read  our  programmes  through, 

The  laundry  ads  and  all; 
Learned  where  to  buy  our  dry  goods  when 

We  fixed  up  for  the  fall; 
We  learned  whose  prices  were  the  least, 

Who  carried  largest  stocks; 
But — see  the  show?    Nay,  nay,  Pauline, 

We  occupied  a  box! 


WHEN  PAPA  HOLDS  MY  HAND 

I'm  not  a-scared  o'  horses  ner  street  cars  ner  anyfing, 
Ner  automobiles  ner  th'  cabs ;  an'  once,  away  last  spring, 
A  grea'  big  hook  an'  ladder  ring  went  slapty-bangin'  by 
An'  I  was  purtnear  in  th'  way,  an'  didn't  even  cry ; 
'Cause  when  I'm  down  town  I  go  'round  wif  papa — 

un'erstand, 
An'  I'm  not  'fraid  o'  nuffin'  when  my  papa  holds  my 

hand. 

W'y  street  cars  couldn't  hurt  him,  an'  th'  horses  wouldn't 

dare; 

An'  if  a  automobile  run  agin  'im,  he  won't  care ! 
He'll  al'ys  keep  between  me  an'  th'  fings  'ith  danger  in — 
I  know  so,  'cause  he  al'ys  has,  'ist  ev'ry  place  we  been; 
An'  nen  at  night  I  laugh  myself  clear  into  Dreamyland 
An'  never  care  how  dark  it  is,  when  papa  holds  my  hand. 

'S  a  funny  fing — one  night  when  I  puttended  I  was  'sleep 
An'  papa's  face  was  on  my  hand,  I  felt  a  somepin  creep 
Across  my  fingers ;  an'  it  felt  ezactly  like  a  tear, 
But  couldn't  been,  for  wasn't  any  cryin',  t'  I  could  hear. 
An'  when  I  asked  him  'bout  it  he  'ist  laughed  to  beat  th' 

band — 
But  I  kep'  wonderin'  what  it  was  'at  creeped  out  on  my 

hand. 

Sometimes  my  papa  holds  on  like  I  maybe  helped  him, 

too, 

An'  makes  me  feel  most  awful  good  puttendin'  like  I  do. 
An'  papa  says — w'y  papa  says — w'y  somepin  like  'at  we 
An'  God  'ist  keep  a  holdin'  hands  the  same  as  him  an'  me. 
He  says  some  uvver  fings  'at  I  'ist  partly  un'erstand, 
But  I  know  this — I'm  not  afraid  when  papa  holds  my 

hand. 


88 


THE  WORRYLESS  MAN 

The  man  who's  clean  quit  worrying — I  found  him,  t'other 

day; 

'Twas  in  a  humble  little  town  in  Eastern  loway. 
His  features  was  as  quiet  as  you'd  ever  wish  to  see — 
So  sort  o'  nice  and  placid,  not  a  bit  like  you  or  me. 
I'd  heard  about  the   sort  o'   folks  that  never  worried 

none — 

No  matter  if  the  sky  was  clouds  instead  o'  blue  an'  sun. 
But  most  o'  such  I'd  found  to  be  a  sort  o'  false  alarm 
That  had  their  times  for  worrying,  when  life  seemed  shy 

o'  charm. 

But  O,  this  placid  fellow  that  I  found  in  loway — 
He  didn't  care  a  penny  if  it  snowed  two  foot  in  May ; 
He  didn't  want  no  worldly  goods  beyond  his  little  need, 
While  to  Ambition's  siren  voice  he  never  gave  no  heed. 
He  didn't  even  worry  lest  his  children  turn  out  bad — 
They'd  have  to  fail  or  not,  without  a-bothering  their  dad. 
His  life-long  business  rival's  caught  the  trade  this  man 

had  sought — 
The  man  who  never  worries  doesn't  give  the  thing  a 

thought ! 

How  did  I  chance  to  meet  him?    At  a  gathering,  that  day 
I  had  to  make  an  hour's  stop  in  Eastern  loway. 
A  lot  o'  folks  in  carriages  had  drove  to  town  and  met 
As  close  about  his  dwelling  as  their  vehicles  could  get. 
They   formed  a  long  procession  just  in  honor  of  the 

man — 

This  chap  affiliated  with  the  antiworry  clan. 
They  done  a  little  talking  and  they  sung  a  little  verse, 
While  he  who'd  clean  quit  worrying — he  occupied  the 

hearse. 


89 


THEY  CALL  ME  STRONG 

They  call  me  strong  because  my  tears  I  shed  where  none 

may  see; 
Because  I  smile,  tell  merry  tales  and  win  the  crowd  to 

me; 
They  call  me  strong  because  I  laugh  to  ease  an  aching 

heart, 
Because  I  keep  the  sweet  side  out  and  hide  the  bitter 

part. 
But,  O,  could  they  who  call  me  strong  live  but  an  hour 

with  me 
When  I  am  wrung  with  awful  grief  in  my  Gethsemane ! 

They  call  me  strong  because  I  toil  from  early  morn  till 

late, 
Well  knowing  there  will  be  no  smile  to  meet  me  at  the 

gate. 
They  call  me  strong  because  I  hide  an  inward  pain  with 

jest, 
And  drive  away  the  care  that  comes  unbidden  to  my 

breast ; 
Perhaps  'tis  strength — God  knoweth  best;  He  sent  the 

cares  to  me ! 
And  His — not  mine — the  strength  that  keeps  through 

my  Gethsemane! 


90 


TO  A  NEW  BABY 

Little  kicking,  cuddling  thing, 
You  don't  cry — you  only  sing! 
Blinking  eyes  and  stubby  nose, 
Mouth  that  mocks  the  budding  rose, 
Down  for  hair,  peach-blows  for  hands — 
Ah-h-h-h!     Of  all  the  "  baby-grands  " 
Any  one  could  wish  to  see, 
You're  the  finest  one  for  me ! 

Skin  as  soft  as  velvet  is; 
God  (when  you  were  only  his) 
Touched  you  on  the  cheek  and  chin — 
Where  he  touched  are  dimples  in. 
Creases  on  your  wrists,  as  though 
Strings  were  fastened  'round  them  so 
We  could  tie  you  tight  and  keep 
You  from  leaving  while  we  sleep. 

Once  I  tried  to  look  at  you 
From  a  stranger's  point  of  view ; 
You  were  red  and  wrinkled;  then 
I  just  loved,  and  looked  again; 
What  I  saw  was  not  the  same ; 
In  my  eyes  the  blessed  flame 
Of  a  father's  love  consumed 
Faults  to  strangers'  eyes  illumed. 

Little  squirming,  cuddling  thing! 
Ere  you  shed  each  angel  wing, 
Did  they  tell  you  you  were  sent 
With  a  cargo  of  content 
To  a  home  down  here  below 
Where  they  hungered  for  you  so? 
Do  you  know,  you  flawless  pearl, 
How  we  love  our  baby  girl? 


"  THE  WATER'S  FINE  " 

I  have  had  some  invitations  from  my  wealthier  relations 

Humbly  begging  my  attendance  at  their  houses; 
I've  had  bids  to  ball  and  party  that  were  earnest,  warm 

and  hearty ; 

I've  been  asked  to  join  bohemian  carouses. 
I've  been  asked  to  take  a  junket  where  I  shouldn't  spend 

a  plunket, 

Though  we  took  a  joyous  journey  "  down  the  line," 
But  the  best,  beyond  a  doubt,  was  that  old-time  boyhood 

shout 
From  the  swimming  hole :    "  Come  in,  the  water's  fine !" 

Hot?  The  landscape  fairly  wiggled  while  you  rapturously 

wriggled 

From  the  garments  that  were  sticking  to  your  skin ; 
And  the  sycamore  was  leaning — all-protectingly  careening 

O'er  the  limpid  pool  that  struck  you  at  the  chin. 
With   a   whoop    of   satisfaction   you   were   speedily    in 

action — 

No  such  wealth  was  ever  digged  from  out  a  mine 
As  was  yours  for  less  than  asking  as  you  splashed  or  lay 

a-basking, 
After  heeding  that  "  Come  in,  the  water's  fine !  " 

Now  I  toil  from  morn  till  gloaming,  doing  office  grinds 

or  roaming 

Where  the  avenues  of  trade  are  ever  thronged ; 
I  must  dress  in  garb  of  fashion,  sans  compunction  or 

compassion, 

Else  the  public  would  be  wonderfully  wronged. 
But  whene'er  the  sun  is  burning,  to  my  soul  there  comes 

a  yearning 

For  the  call  we  loved  in  boyhood,  brother  mine — 
Ringing  joyously  and  clear  on  a  mighty  willing  ear, 
And  its  burden  was :     "  Come  in,  the  water's  fine !  " 

92 


THE  UNPOPULAR  MAN 

Give  me  for  friend  the  man  whose  friends  are  few; 

Who,  though  his  heart  be  clean  and  staunch  and  good — 
Though  every  fiber  of  his  soul  be  true — 

Is  tactless,  blunt,  and  seldom  understood. 

In  such  a  drift  God  oft  conceals  a  lode 

Whose  richness  makes  Golconda's  wealth  seem  naught ; 
On  such  an  one  He  ofttimes  has  bestowed 

Large  worth  so  hid  it  must  be  shrewdly  sought. 

So,  while  the  rabble  fawns  on  him  whose  friends 
Are  as  the  sands  that  rim  the  ocean's  blue, 

I  choose  the  best  of  all  that  heaven  sends — 

Give  me  for  friend  the  man  whose  friends  are  few. 


93 


THE  QUIET  MAN  IN  THE  CORNER 

I  lingered  o'er  a  checker  game  a  night  er  two  ago ; 

The  one  who  played  against  me  seemed  to  have  no  ghost 

of  show; 

I  had  a  bunch  of  lusty  kings  that  strutted  all  about 
And  bullied  my  opponent's  men,  who  dared  not  venture 

out. 

'Way  over  in  a  corner  shrunk  a  timid  little  man 
Who'd  stayed  right  in  his  station  ever  since  the  game 

began. 
He  watched  my  crowned  heads  marching  by  with  banner 

and  with  song, 

And  seemed  to  be  discouraged  over  standing  still  so  long. 
But  pretty  soon  an  opening  occurred  two  blocks  away, 
And  not  another  moment  did  that  little  fellow  stay. 
He  bounded  o'er  the  board  and  took  three  kings  in  one 

fell  swoop, 
Then  landed  in  my  king  row  with  a  wild,  ecstatic  whoop. 

You've  known  those  quiet  fellows  that  just  sat  around 

and  thought 
And  never  made  a  noise  while  the  others  raged  and 

fought ; 

The  whole  community  had  come  to  think  of  them  as  dead, 
Or  else  so  very  near  it  that  their  hope  of  fame  had  fled. 
The  chaps  with  recognition  for  their  portion  pose  and 

strut, 

And  seem  to  overlook  the  man  who  keeps  his  talker  shut. 
But  some  day,  when  'most  every  one  is  lookin'  t'other  way, 
This  quiet  fellow  sees  a  chance  to  break  into  the  play. 
He  reaches  out  and  grabs  things  that  the  others  had 

ignored ; 

He  puts  into  the  life-game  all  the  energy  he'd  stored 
Through  years  of  patient  silence.     So  you'd  better  not 

forget 
The  still  man  in  the  corner — he  may  reach  the  king  row 

yet! 

94 


WHAT  THE  BAD  MAN  SAID 

Th'  man  that's  puttin'  down  th'  walk  in  front  o'  our  back- 
door, 

Ma  says  he's  awful  wicked  an'  I  mustn't  watch  no  more ; 
He's  sulky  an'  he's  fussy  an'  he  mutters  naughty  things 
Whenever  he  ain't  suited  with  th'  kind  o'  bricks  they 

brings — 

I  heard  'im,  even  if  he  did  just  kind  o'  say  it  low — 
He  said  things  bad  as  them  I  thought  th'  time  I  stumped 
my  toe ! 

I  listened  through  th'  winder — it  was  up  a  little  bit — 
I  heard  'im  just  as  easy,  an'  my  ma  most  had  a  fit 
When  he  commenced  a-sayin'  things  he  hadn't  ought  to 

said; 
She  groaned  "  My  goodness  gracious ! "  an'  her  face  got 

awful  red. 
She  said  "  That  brute's  a-sayin'  things  you  hadn't  ought 

t'  know!"— 
She  couldn't  guess  I'd  thought  'em  all  th'  time  I  stumped 

my  toe. 

An'  so  th'  man's  'at's  layin'  bricks  in  front  o'  our  back- 
door 

Keeps  on  a-sayin'  things,  I  s'pose,  but  I  can't  hear  no 
more; 

My  ma  she  keeps  th'  winder  down  an'  talks  a  streak  t'  me 

Because  that  brickman's  language  isn't  what  it  ought  t' 
be. 

I  mustn't  tell  you  what  he  said — it  wouldn't  do,  you 
know; 

But  I  thought  things  as  bad  as  that  th'  time  I  stumped 
my  toe. 


95 


THE  SCALLOP  IN  THE  SKY 

When  dark  had  settled  on  my  world  and  all  was  hushed 
and  still — 

Except  some  distant  dog  that  bayed,  the  raucous  whip- 
poor-will, 

The  flapping  poultry  seeking  place  upon  the  roosting- 
pole, 

A  cricket  shrilling  through  the  murk  from  some  seques- 
tered hole — 

When  all  but  these  were  silent,  making  silence  deeper 
seem; 

When  chores  were  done  and  coal-oil  lamps  set  all  the 
house  agleam, 

I  used  to  steal  away  awhile  and  gaze  with  hungry  eye 

Upon  one  bright  horizon  spot,  a  scallop  in  the  sky. 

'Twas  where  the  lights  that  lit  the  town  a  few  short 

miles  away 
Flared  up  against  the  edge  of  night  and  turned  its  gloom 

to  gray; 
And  I,  ambitious,  filled  with  hope  as  vague  as  love  or 

life, 

Gazed,  dreaming,  at  that  glimmer  with  its  hint  of  glori- 
ous strife ; 
It  told  me  wondrous  tales  of  wealth,  but  most  it  spoke 

of  fame — 
That  peace-destroying  thing  that  sets  the  boyish  heart 

aflame ; 
It  sang  brave  songs  of  conquest,  told  me  many  a  sweet 

half-lie— 
That  gateway  to  my  wonder-world,  my  scallop  in  the 

sky. 

The  time  I  dared  not  hope  for  came :  I  stand  without  that 

gate 
Which  tempted  me  to  wander  forth  and  grapple  with  my 

fate; 

96 


I've  seen  the  great,  big  wonder- world  to  which  ambition 
led— 

Found  love  and  wealth  and  conquest,  but  the  glamour 
all  has  fled. 

Though  life  be  sweet,  the  roseate  hue  my  boyish  fancy 
gave 

Has  vanished;  and  the  boon  that  most  we  weary  world- 
lings crave 

Is  that  blest  time  of  boyhood  when  each  wide,  dream- 
dazzled  eye 

Saw  but  the  sweet  that  lay  beyond  the  scallop  in  the  sky. 


97 


THE  SWEETEST  SONG 

O  singer  in  whose  soul  such  sweetness  dwells 

That,  hearing  others'  songs,  thou  dost  declare 
The  singing  that  from  out  thine  own  throat  wells 

Doth  but  pollute  the  unoffending  air, 
Do  not  despair  and  think  the  world  hath  heard 

The  fairest  message  human  lips  may  bring ; 
Instead,  with  all  thy  being  rapture-stirred, 

Thank  Heaven  there  still  are  sweeter  songs  to  sing. 

If  in  thy  heart  a  melody  hath  sprung 

And  grown  and  thriven  through  blessed  years  on  years, 
Its  little  tendrils  to  love's  breezes  flung, 

Its  branching  rootlets  watered  oft  with  tears; 
If,  when  it  seems  at  last  the  time  is  come 

To  give  it  to  the  world,  another  voice 
Trill  forth  the  song,  while  thine  own  lips  are  dumb, 

And  make  the  whole  wide,  listening  world  rejoice — 

If  such  thy  fate,  O  singer,  bide  thy  time, 

For  God  is  only  sending  thee  to  school; 
Thee  hath  he  destined  for  a  richer  chime, 

Softer  than  rippling  rings  on  dimpled  pool, 
Sweet  as  the  voice  of  angels  when  on  high 

They  set  their  love-born  ecstasies  afling. 
Sing  on,  sing  on ;  the  whole  world,  by  and  by, 

Must  know  thou  hadst  a  sweeter  song  to  sing. 


98 


THE  POSTOFFICE  PEN 

I  have  heard  the  strange  tale  of  a  tramp  that  would 
work; 

I  have  heard  of  a  story  new ; 
I  have  seen  an  industrious  government  clerk, 

And  a  wash-day  that  wasn't  blue; 
I  have  handled  a  donkey  not  stubborn  a  bit, 

Seen  a  lunch-counter  doughnut  light, 
But  I  never  have  heard — not  so  much  as  a  word — 

Of  a  postoffice  pen  that  would  write. 

I've  examined  them  here,  I've  examined  them  there, 

From  Cape  Cod  to  the  Golden  Gate; 
I've  attempted  to  write  with  the  pens  at  Bellaire, 

In  the  wonderful  Buckeye  state; 
I've  attempted  to  write  with  the  pens  in  Duluth, 

With  those  down  at  Keeley-cure  Dwight, 
But  I  firmly  affirm — and  this  statement  is  truth — 

I  have  never  found  one  that  would  write. 

I  may  sometimes  behold  an  intelligent  fool, 

A  blackbird  as  white  as  the  snow; 
I  may  even  find  out  an  unbreakable  rule 

Or  airships  that  really  go, 
Some  day  I  may  make  a  car  window  arise, 

See  a  bluffer  that  hungers  for  fight ; 
But  none  of  these  things  would  be  half  the  surprise 

Of  a  postoffice  pen  that  would  write. 


99 


THE  FINEST  SIGHT 

'Twas  on  a  well-filled  railway  train  one  snowy  winter 

day, 

When  each  was  sitting  waiting  for  his  station ; 
The  most  of  us  were  speeding  on  to  spend  sometime 

away 

From  home,  with  friends  or  sweethearts  or  relation. 
A  sweet,  old  white-haired  lady  sat  three  seats  in  front  of 

me — 

A  gray-haired  man  beside  her  called  her  "  Mother  " ; 

And  there  I  sat  and  wondered  if  a  finer  sight  could  be 

Than  two  old  gray-haired  folks  that  love  each  other. 

The  love  of  youth  for  youth  is  strong  and  thrills  folks 

through  and  through; 

The  love  of  middle  age  is  sweet  and  deeper; 
The  love  of  our  decrepitude  is  as  the  compass  true, 

Each  praying  to  be  first  to  meet  the  Reaper. 
I've  seen  the  dawn  sweep  o'er  the  sea  and  gild  the  distant 

hills, 

I've  seen  the  best  the  world  affords,  my  brother ; 
But  nothing  else  with  helpful  tears  these  hardened  eye- 
lids fills 
Like  two  old  gray-haired  folks  that  love  each  other. 

When  down  the  western  slope  we  go — my  Chum  and  I, 

together ; 

When  she  a  crown  of  silvery  white  is  wearing, 
May  she,  close-clinging  to  my  hand,  ne'er  stop  to  wonder 

whether 

The  old-time  love  for  her  I  still  am  bearing, 
God  grant — he's  granted  lots  of  things  that  gladdened 

her  and  me — 

My  faded  lips  with  kisses  she  may  smother ; 
That  when  we've  lost  the  fire  of  youth  we  twain  may 

come  to  be 
Two  gentle,  gray-haired  folks  that  love  each  other. 

100 


GET  MAD 

If  the  world  don't  do  exactly  as  you  think  it  ought  to  do, 

Get  mad ; 
If  you  meet  with  opposition,  go  and  get  a  rag  to  chew — 

Get  mad. 

Get  as  mad  as  hops,  and  show  it; 
Feed  your  anger — fan  it,  blow  it; 
Pout,  and  let  the  whole  world  know  it — 
Get  mad. 

If  you  step  on  a  banana-peel  and  stand  upon  your  skull, 

Get  mad ; 

Never  smile  and  make  a  joke  of  it,  or  folks  will  think  you 
dull; 

Get  mad. 

Turn  and  say  things  to  the  spot 
Where  the  pavement  quickly  shot 
Up  and  gave  you  such  a  swat — 
Get  mad. 

If  you  want  to  be  a  comfort  to  the  world  we're  living  in, 

Get  mad ; 

If  you  want  to  keep  folks'  faces  lighted  always  with  a 
grin, 

Get  mad. 

For  there's  nothing  else  so  funny 
In  this  whole  wide  world,  my  honey, 
As  the  man  that's  never  sunny; 
Get  mad! 


101 


THE  OTHER  FELLOW'S  JOB 

There's  a  craze  among  us  mortals  that  is  cruel  hard  to 

name, 
Wheresoe'er  you  find  a  human  you  will  find  the  case  the 

same; 
You  may  seek  among  the  worst  of  men  or  seek  among 

the  best, 
And  you'll  find  that  every  person  is  precisely  like  the 

rest. 

Each  believes  his  real  calling  is  along  some  other  line 
Than  the  one  at  which  he's  working, — take,  for  instance, 

yours  and  mine ; 
From  the  meanest  "  me-too "  creature  to  the  leader  of 

the  mob, 
There's  a  universal  craving  for  "  the  other  fellow's  job." 

There  are  millions  of  positions  in  the  busy  world  to-day, 
Each  a  drudge  to  him  who  holds  it,  but  to  him  who 

doesn't,  play; 
Every  farmer's  broken-hearted  that  in  youth  he  missed 

his  call, 

While  that  same  unhappy  farmer  is  the  envy  of  us  all. 
Any  task  you  care  to  mention  seems  a  vastly  better  lot 
Than  the  one  especial  something  which  you  happen  to 

have  got. 
There's  but  one  sure  way  to  smother  Envy's  heartache 

and  her  sob : 
Keep  too  busy,  at  your  own,  to  want  "  the  other  fellow's 

job." 


102 


FINEST  OF  ALL 

God   made  the   streams   that   gurgle   down   the   purple 

mountain-side ; 
He  made  the  gorgeous  coloring  with  which  the  sunset's 

dyed; 
He  made  the  hills  and  covered  them  with  glory ;  and  He 

made 
The  sparkle  on  the  dew-drop  and  the  shifting  shine  and 

shade. 
Then,  seeing  that  He  needed  but  a  crown  for  all  earth's 

charms, 
He  made  a  little  woman  with  a  baby  in  her  arms. 

He  made  the  arching  rainbow  that  is  hurled  across  the 

sky; 
He  made  the  blessed  flowers  that  nod  and  smile  as  we  go 

by; 
He  made  the  ball-room  beauty  as  she  sways  with  queenly 

grace, 
But  sweetest  of  them  all  he  made  the  lovelight  in  the 

face 

That  bends  above  a  baby  warding  off  all  earth's  alarms — 
God  bless  the  little  woman  with  a  baby  in  her  arms. 


103 


WHEN  OUR  GAL  SPOKE  A  PIECE 

I  ben  t'  doin's  off  an'  on, 

Like  apple-bees  an*  spellin's, 
T'  quart'ly  meetin's,  public  sales, 

Hangings  an'  weddin'  bellin's; 
But  nothin' — sence  the  shewtin'  scrape 

Down  on  Bill  Jones's  lease — 
Hez  worked  me  up  like  t'  other  night 

When  our  gal  spoke  a  piece! 

'Twuz  down  t'  th'  ol'  frame  meetin'  house — 

They  called  it  "  childern's  day  " ; 
Th'  young  'uns  done  it  purtnigh  all, 

Except  th'  preacher's  say; 
An'  that  hull  program  wriggled  off 

Slicker'n  melted  grease. 
But  th'  place  where  I  fergot  t'  breathe 

'S  where  our  gal  spoke  a  piece ! 

The  sup'intendent  spoke  right  up — 

I  heerd  him  call  her  name ! 
An'  there  she  come  a  trottin'  out — 

T'  others  may  looked  th'  same, 
But  they  wa'n't  nary  nuther  one, 

Not  even  Thompson's  niece, 
That  looked  wuth  shucks  to  Moll  an'  me 

When  our  gal  spoke  a  piece. 

Me  an'  my  woman  set  down  front, 

Right  clost  th'  mourners'  bench; 
An'  list'nin'  to  that  young'un  speak 

Give  us  an'  awful  wrench! 
An'  when  we  heerd  'em  cheer  an'  cheer, 

We  set  like  two  ol'  geese, 
Wipin'  th'  silly  tears  away 

While  our  gal  spoke  a  piece! 

104 


'Twuz  jest  some  little,  easy  thing, 

Like  "Twinkle,  Little  Star," 
Er  Mary's  leetle  cosset  lamb, 

Er  somethin'  like  that  thar, 
But  'twant  no  twinklin'  starlight  beams, 

Ner  tags  frum  lammie's  fleece, 
That  made  us  blow  our  noses  hard, 

When  our  gal  spoke  a  piece. 

I  haint  ben  what  I'd  orto  ben ; 

I've  staid  away  frum  church, 
An'  sometimes  Moll  an'  me  hez  thought 

They'd  left  us  in  the  lurch ; 
But — wal,  we've  kinder  rounded  up, 

An'  let  our  wand'rin's  cease, 
Sence  we  wuz  down  there  t'other  night 

An'  heerd  her  speak  a  piece. 


105 


THE  OLD  ASH-HOPPER 

'Most  everything  that  we  know,  in  the  spring, 

Holds  a  lot  or  a  little  of  poetry  rare : 
There's  the  flash  of  the  sun  on  the  streamlets  that  run 

Past  the  idle  one  gazing  all  lazily  there ; 
The  sharp,  shrilly  bleat  as  the  lambs'  nimble  feet 

Leap  over  a  log,  in  their  crazy  parade ; 
The  birds'  merry  twitter,  the  sun's  dazzling  glitter 

On  each  little  puddle  the  showers  have  made. 

O,  it's  then  that  your  work  is  all  easy — to  shirk ; 

And  your  conscience  can  sleep  till  you  hear  the  thing 

snore ; 
Then  your  every  excuse  is  "  O,  what  is  the  use 

Of  digging  and  delving  forevermore !  " 
It  is  sweet  then  to  dream  by  a  sand-bottomed  stream ; 

To  watch  a  swift  minnow-school  crossing  the  shoal — 
To  be  only  a  boy  with  a  skin-full  of  joy 

And  forget  that  you  ever  laid  claim  to  a  soul. 

But  there's  one  desert  spot  in  the  old  orchard  lot 

Where  the  climax  of  laziness  comes  once  a  year — 
O,  the  castles  of  air  built,  on  days  that  were  fair, 

Near  that  ancient  ash-hopper — the  thought  brings  a 

tear. 

Though  the  place  I  half  dread,  yet  it  runs  through  my 
head 

That  if  I  could  go  back  to  those  days  full  of  hope 
And  could  visit  the  farm  in  the  spring's  dreamy  charm, 

I  would  go  to  that  place  where  we  used  to  make  soap. 

Four  posts  driven  down  near  the  ash-heap,  gray-brown, 
In  the  form  of  a  square,  poles  connecting  the  top ; 

With  a  trough  down  below  where,  now  fast  and  now 

slow, 
The  lye  used  to  trickle  in  tongue-biting  drops; 

106 


The  boards,  with  one  end  in  the  trough,  must  depend 
On  the  poles  at  the  top  for  their  other  support. 

Fill  the  hopper  with  straw,  under  orders  from  "  Ma," 
Then  ashes,  then  water,  and  then  for  the  sport ! 

When  the  lye  trickles  out  to  the  crock  'neath  the  spout, 

'Tis  conveyed  to  a  kettle  that's  standing  near  by — 
Fill  it  up  to  the  top,  although  never  a  drop 

Must  once  be  permitted  to  splash  in  your  eye! 
Then  the  boiling  goes  on  till  the  weakness  has  gone 

From   the   lye,   so  three   dips  take   the   rays  from  a 

feather, 
Then  the  grease  tumbles  in,  and  the  good  times  begin, 

To  last — till  the  soap's  done,  regardless  of  weather. 

O,  the  everyday  clothes  eaten  up — Mother  knows — 

By  the  ashes  I  sat  in  while  lost  in  day-dreams 
Of  a  future  whose  hope  "was  unmixed  with  soft  soap, 

And  my  mind  never  tired  of  those  fanciful  schemes. 
In  my  fancy  I'm  there,  and  my  life's  later  care 

Is  a  part  of  the  dream  I  am  dreaming  again 
Near  that  ancient  ash-pile — if  'tis  crude,  you  may  smile, 

But  I've  sat  in  the  ashes  in  sackcloth,  since  then. 

O,  the  sweet,  sunny  days,  with  their  still,  lazy  haze, 

Remove  all  the  obstacles  time  placed  between; 
And  my  mind  scampers  back  o'er  the  rough,  stony 
track, 

Till  I'm  there  on  the  farm  with  the  others,  again. 
It  is  hard  then  to  think  there  has  been  any  link 

That  connected  the  past  with  the  present;  and  so 
I  just  revel  in  joy  once  again — like  a  boy, 

Swallowed  up  in  a  bliss  only  dreamers  may  know. 


107 


WHEN  THE  JOKE'S  ON  US 

We  can  get  a  lot  of  giggle  from  the  cares  of  other  folks, 
We  can  pluck  a  lot  of  pleasure  from  our  own  delightful 

jokes; 
We  can  laugh  to  beat  the  mischief  when  the  other  fellow 

slips 

On  a  fresh  banana  peeling,  as  adown  the  street  he  trips ; 
We  can  smile  a  smile  of  rapture  at  a  fellow-creature's 

muss, 
But  it's  quite  another  story  when  the 

Joke's  on  us. 

We  can  scheme  and  plot  to  humble  some  poor  chap  we 

think  is  proud, 
We  are  glad  when  he's  the  victim  of  the  cackle  of  the 

crowd ; 
We  will  play  the  blooming  joker  when  the  other  fellow's 

It 

And  will  gurgle  o'er  his  trouble  till  we  nearly  have  a  fit ; 
But  we're  southbound  in  a  minute  and  prepared  to  start 

a  fuss 
When  the  victim  turns  the  tables  and  the 

Joke's  on  us. 

We  will  never  reach  perfection  in  this  tricky  human 

game 

Till  a  joke  on  t'other  fellow  or  on  us  is  all  the  same — 
Till  we  laugh  as  long  and  loudly  at  our  own  discomfiture 
As  we  do  when  someone  else  has  held  the  bag  the  snipes 

to  lure ; 
We'll  be  failures  just  as  long  as  we  proceed  to  rave  and 

cuss 
When  the  other  fellow's  laughing  and  the 

Joke's  on  us. 


108 


THE  OLD  CABINET  ORGAN 

I've  heerd  The'  Thomas  an'  his  gang,  I've  heerd  Phil 
Sowzy's  band! 

I've  heerd  th'  best  musicianers  they  is,  in  all  th'  land. 

I've  heerd  them  nail-mill  pieces  'at  they  blame  oT  Wag- 
ner fer; 

But  nothin'  'mongst  'em  one  an'  all  hez  made  my  feelin's 
stir 

Like  that  ol'  cab'net  organ,  with  but  jest  eight  stops  in 
all, 

A  settin'  in  our  ol'  best  room,  backed  up  agin'  th'  wall, 

With  th'  organ  agent  playin'  it — while  we  all  stood 
around, 

An'  none  of  us  a  breathin'  lest  we'd  lose  a  single  sound. 

The  day  that  organ  come  t'  us,  I'll  al'ays  hev  in  mind 
Till  this  ol'  head  gits  chilly,  an'  these  glimmerin'  eyes 

gits  blind; 
My  big  school-teacher  sister'd  ben  away  frurrf  home  a 

spell, 
An'  ben  a  takin'  lessons  till  she  played  some  things  right 

well; 
An'  nothin'  else'd  do  'er  when  she  drawed  her  winter's 

pay, 
But  she  must  hev  a  organ  like  the  one  she'd  lairned  t' 

play; 

Us  folks  all  sort  o'  pooh-poohed  at  th'  idee  fer  awhile, 
But  ye  know  th'  one  that  aims  it  is  th'  one  t'  spend  th' 

pile. 

An' — I  wuz  jest  a  goin'  on  t'  tell  how  it  got  out 
Amongst  th'  organ  agents,  what  our  gal  hed  thought 

about ; 

But  I  hain't  nary  idee ;  cause  she  hedn't  said  a  thing — 
It  must  'a'  ben  some  sparrer  jest  a  passin'  on  th'  wing 
'At  ketched  th'  word  an'  tuck  it;  cause  it  wa'n't  a  week, 

I  guess, 

109 

8 


Afore  that  gal  wuz  wearin'  ev'ry  day  her  Sunday  dress, 
A-entertainin'  men  'at  sold,  each  one,  th'  highest  grade, 
An'  th'  hollyhocks  wuz  smothered  with  th'  dust  their 
wagons  made ! 

Bimeby  two  fellers  lugged  one  up  th'  steps  an'  in  th' 

door, 

An'  set  it  in  th'  best  room,  an'  begin  t'  make  it  roar 
An'  whine  an'  howl  an'  tootle  like  a  steam  pianner  goes — 
Ye  ort  t'  seen  us  men-folks  in  th'  field  throw  down  our 

hoes 

An'  stop  th'  plows  an'  ev'ry  thing,  an'  jest  go  on  th'  run, 
A-wipin'  sweat  an'  tearin'  on,  right  through  th'  bilin' 

sun — 
Till  we   stood,   in   silent   wonder,   thinkin',   'mid   them 

thrillin'  strains, 
Thorts  uv  instermental  music,  jest  as  crude  as  Jubal 

Cain's! 

That  best  room,  with  rag  carpets  an'  its  chromos  on  th' 

wall, 

Spread  out,  an'  got  lots  bigger'n  th'  biggest  concert  hall ; 
An'  sev'ral  uv  us  turned  away  t'  cough  an'  wipe  our  eyes, 
While  th'  clouds  seemed  floatin'  under  us,  we  got  that 

clost  th'  skies. 
Well,  'fore  them  fellers  left,  I  guess  they  knowed  they'd 

made  a  sale, 

At  prices  that  made  us  folks  think  th'  organ  men'd  fail. 
Th'  fellers  said  themselves  it  wuz  th'  very  lowest  price 
They  got  fer  other  organs,  t'wuzn't  half  so  big,  ner  nice. 

Then  all  th'  fam'ly — only  Pap — tuck  turns  at  tryin'  t' 

play; 

W'y  mother  ust  t'  set  an'  gouge  out  tunes  fer  half  a  day ! 
An'  ev'ry  one  'at  hit  th'  stool  commenced  t'  feel  around 
An'  dig  up  "  Jesus  Lover,"  with  one  finger,  jest  b'  sound. 
The  neighbors,  settin'  on  th'  porch,  'way  after  set  o'  sun, 

no 


Looked  solemn,  in  th'  moonlight,  thinkin'  what  our  gal 

hed  done — 

A-squanderin'  her  money  fer  a  organ,  when  she  knowed 
She  orto  gone  an'  paid  it  on  th'  debts  her  daddy  owed! 

I've  heerd  The'  Thomas  an'  'is  gang,  I've  heerd  Phil 
Sowzy's  band! 

I've  heerd  th'  best  musicianers  they  is  in  all  th'  land ; 

I've  heerd  them  'sault  an'  batteries  they  blame  ol'  Wag- 
ner fer — 

In  fact  I've  listened  to  'bout  all  they  is,  'at's  made  a  stir; 

But  when  in  dreams  I  think  I  hear  th'  blessed  heavenly 
choirs 

An'  big  arch-angels  pummelin'  celeschal  harps  an'  lyres, 

That  music  then  reminds  me  (ef  my  thorts  tetch  airth  at 
all) 

Uv  that  eight-stop  cab'net  organ  shoved  agin  our  best- 
room  wall. 


in 


SUCKING  VS.  CRUNCHING 

When  the  lads  were  little  codgers  and  their  father  gave 

them  candy 
(One  of  them  was  little  Freddie,  t'other  one  was  little 

Andy) 

Andy  always  took  a  bite  off  and  bestowed  it  in  his  jaw 
Where  he  let  it  stay  dissolving  like  a  January  thaw ; 
But  not  Freddie — he  went  at  it  like  a  farmhand  at  his 

lunch ; 
Andy  always  sucked  his  candy — Freddie  liked  to  hear  it 

crunch. 

'Course  a  short  half  hour  later  Freddie  'd  be  plum'  out  of 

candy, 
And  he'd  try  his  very  hardest  for  to  get  a  piece  from 

Andy; 
But  that  kid  would  coolly  tell  him  "  Guess  you  had  as 

much  as  me ; 
'F  you'd  a-sucked  instead  o'  chewin',  w'y  you'd  still  have 

some — ye  see?  " 
But  'twould  be  th'  same  way  next  time,  Freddie  never 

took  his  hunch; 

Andy  still  kept  suckin'  candy — Freddie  liked  to  hear  it 
crunch. 

Now  they're  men;  when  Fred  has  money  he's  a  bully 

boy — a  dandy; 
So  he's  broke  before  each  pay-day — but  it  isn't  so  with 

Andy. 
Andy  saves  his  dough  and  hoards  it,  puts  it  tenderly 

away 
Waitin',  as  he  always  tells  you,  for  some  gloomy  rainy 

day. 

Consequently  he  has  gathered  quite  a  noticeable  bunch — 
Andy  still  just  sucks  his  candy — Fred  still  likes  to  hear 

it  crunch. 

112 


THE  EGOTIST'S  HEAVEN 

They  have  sung  celestial  pleasures  of  the  ordinary  sort — 

Sitting  on  a  golden  sidewalk  hearing  brazen  trumpets 
snort, 

Playing  harps  and  dwelling  ever  'neath  a  blue  and  cloud- 
less sky — 

These  the  pictures  one  is  used  to,  of  the  blessed  by  and 

by- 

But  to  save  my  life  I  never  felt  inclined  to  change  my 

ways 
For  the  things  they've  used  to  tempt  me  to  be  righteous 

all  my  days. 
Here's  a  thing  would  make  the  heaven  that  my  pining 

would  assuage — 
Let  us  each  one  have  the  spot-light  and  the  center  of  the 

stage ! 

In  the  heaven  that  I  long  for  there  is  music  low  and 

sweet, 
And  the  white  and  glaring  footlights  are  extinguished  at 

my  feet. 
There  is  darkness  all  about  me,  save  for  one  long  shaft 

of  light 
That's  upon  my  features  resting  like  a  sunbeam  brave 

and  bright ; 
Bravos  hail  me  from  the  darkness  and  I  know  that  I  am 

seen — 
That's  the  heaven  that  I  yearn  for,  that's  the  sort  of  bliss 

I  mean. 

And,  if  anybody  asks  you,  that's  the  spirit  of  the  age — 
Struggling,  fighting  for  the  spot-light  and  the  center  of 

the  stage ! 


THE  GIRL-CHILD 

'Course  we'd  figgered  on  a  boy-child,  same  as  people  al- 
ways does — 

Baby-girls  is  jest  th'  uselessest  they  is  er  ever  was. 

Helpless  when  they're  kids  an'  helpless  when  they're 
middle-aged  er  old — 

All  th'  fambly  turns  pertector  fer  th'  ewe-lamb  of  the 
fold. 

D  assent  ever  pop  th'  question,  even  though  she's  lost  in 
love; 

Has  t'  set  an'  wait  till  some  man  labels  'er  'is  turtle-dove. 

Yit  it  wa'n't  a  boy,  by  gracious!  when  it  come,  th'  other 
day, 

But  we've  kind  o'  got  a  notion  that  we'll  keep  it,  any  way. 

'Course  'twas  dredful  disapp'intin'  that  it  couldn't  bin 

a  boy, 
An'  th'  tears  we  shed  er  swallered  wa'n't  no  sparklin' 

tears  o'  joy; 
But  she's  jest  so  small  an'  cunnin',  an'  she  snuggles  up 

so  sweet, 
With  'er  fists  like  velvet  rosebuds  an'  'er  little  wrinkled 

feet— 
Clingin'  close,  jest  like  th'  tendrils  of  th'  mornin'-glory 

vine 
As  it  clambers  up  th'  porch-post  on  a  piece  o'  cotton 

twine — 
Never  knowin'  she  hain't  welcome  as  th'  flowers  is  in 

May; 
So  we've  somehow  got  a  notion  that  we'll  keep  'er,  any 

way. 

Then,  ag'in,  I  thought  o'  mother — she  was  onct  a  baby- 
girl. 

Ain't  no  tellin'  jest  which  eyester  is  th'  one  that  hides  the 
pearl. 

114 


Who'd  'a'  knowed  when  she  was  little  that  she'd  ever  be 

so  great, 
An'  would  make  my  dear  old  daddy  sich  a  stiddy  runnin'- 

mate? 
Then  th'  one  that  lays  an'  snuggles  with  this  bran'-new 

baby  hyer — 

Would  my  life  be  worth  th'  livin'  if  it  hadn't  bin  fer  her? 
She  was  jest  as  pink  an'  helpless  as  this  new  one  is  one 

day; 
So  it's  purty  easy  guessin'  that  we'll  keep  her,  any  way. 


THE  FAMILY  GROUP 

I  hain't  a  spark  o'  city  pride — at  least  so  people  say ; 
I  don't  care  who  finds  out  my  hair  is  full  o'  germs  o'  hay ; 
I  don't  care  who  discovers  that  I  growed  up  on  a  farm 
An'  hain't  got  ust  t'  street-cars  ner  that  skeery  fire-alarm ; 
But  one  sad  mem'ry  makes  me  gasp  like  when  I  had  th' 

croup, 
An'  that's  t'  think  how  we-all  looked  in  that  ol'  fam'ly 

group. 

T'  start  in  with,  they's  none  of  us  would  had  it  took  that 

day — 
Jist  happened  we  was  all  in  town,  'cause  Bill  was  goin' 

away 

With  his  best  bib  an'  tucker  on ;  an'  so  he  says  t'  me : 
"  Le's  go  an'  git  a  fam'ly  group,  like  Williamses,"  says 

he. 

O'  course  we  all  felt  proud  o'  Bill,  an'  fell  in  with  a  whoop 
An'  flocked  right  up  them  gallery  stairs  t'  git  that  fam'ly 

group. 

Th'  photo-grapher  kind  o'  laughed  when  we  went  flockin' 

in — 
I've  spent  some  years,  in  later  life,  a-figgerin'  on  that 

grin. 

An'  Bill  he  bossed  th'  job  because  he  was  a-goin'  away — 
Talked  up  an'  showed  that  pictur  man  he  wasn't  any  jay. 
Th'  feller  went  an'  hid  awhile  in  some  ol'  smelly  coop, 
An'  got  'is  shooter  ready  fer  t'  take  our  fam'ly  group. 

He  put  pa  in  th'  middle  with  ma'  settin'  by  his  side ; 
He  dragged  Mahaly  out  from  where  she'd  snuck  away  t' 

hide; 
He  yanked  our  chins  an'  fixed  our  hands  an'  pulled  our 

faces  'round, 

116 


An'  handled  us  all  over  like  he's  buyin'  us  by  th'  pound. 
Then  went  an'  hid  behint  a  rag  an'  give  a  little  stoop 
An'  says  "That's  all— nex'  Saturday."     He'd  took  our 
fam'ly  group ! 

I  see  it  yit!  Bill  fixed  up,  lookin'  like  a  full-blowed  rose 

Amongst  a  bunch  o'  rag-weeds;  pa's  a-wrinklin'  up  'is 
nose; 

Mahaly's  finger's  in  'er  mouth;  Moll's  got  a  sheepish 
grin; 

Tom's  mad,  an'  I've  got  on  some  boots  with  awful 
wrinkles  in. 

Ma's  worried  'cause  that  head-clamp  tilted  up  her  bonnet- 
scoop — 

I'm  sorry  Bill  suggested  that  we  git  a  fam'ly  group. 


Ma  laughs  about  it,  but  she  keeps  it  hangin'  on  th'  wall. 
Mahaly's  dead — her  baby's  there,  a-growin'  big  an'  tall. 
All  of  us  is  scattered  out — some  of  us  gittin'  gray ; 
An'  pa  sets  dreamin'  on  th'  porch,  through  every  sunny 

day. 

I  guess  God's  gittin'  ready  fer  t'  make  a  gentle  swoop 
An'  take  us  up  t'  where  they'll  be  a  better  fam'ly  group. 


117 


RUTS 

Th'  world  is  full  o'  ruts,  my  boy,  some  shaller  an*  some 

deep; 

An'  ev'ry  rut  is  full  o'  folks,  as  high  as  they  can  heap. 
Each  one  that's  grovelin'  in  th'  ditch  is  growlin'  at  his 

fate, 

An'  wishin'  he  had  got  his  chance  before  it  was  too  late. 
They  lay  it  all  on  someone  else  or  say  'twas  jest  their 

luck — 
They  never  onct  consider  that  'twas  caused  by  lack  o' 

pluck. 
But  here's  th'  word  of  one  that's  lived  clean  through, 

frum  soup  t'  nuts: 
Th'  Lord  don't  send  no  derricks  'round  t'  h'ist  folks  out 

o'  ruts. 

Some  folks  has  staid  in  ruts  until  they  didn't  like  th' 

place, 
Then  scrambled  bravely  to  th'  road  an'  entered  in  th' 

race. 
Sich  ones  has  always  found  a  hand  held  out  for  them  t' 

grab 

An'  cling  to  till  they'd  lost  the  move  peculiar  to  the  crab. 
But  only  them  that  helps  themselves  an'  tries  fer  better 

things 
Will  ever  see  th'  helpin'  hand  t'  which  each  climber 

clings. 
This  here's  the  hard,  plain,  solemn  facks,  without  no  ifs 

or  buts ; 
Th'  Lord  don't  send  no  derricks  'round  t'  h'ist  folks  out 

o'  ruts. 


118 


MAMMY'S  LULLABY 

Sleep,  mah  li'l  pigeon,  don'  yo'  heah  yo'  mammy  coo? 

Sunset  still  a-shinin'  in  de  wes'; 

Sky  am  full  o'  windehs  an'  de  stahs  am  peepin'  froo— 
Eb'ryt'ing  but  mammy's  lamb  at  res'. 
Swing  'im  to'ds  de  Eas'lan', 
Swing  'im  to'ds  de  Souf — 
See  dat  dove  a-comin'  wif  a  olive  in  'is  mouf ! 
Angels  hahps  a-hummin', 
Angel  banjos  strummin' — 
Sleep,  mah  li'l  pigeon,  don'  yo'  heah  yo'  mammy  coo? 

Cricket  fiddleh  scrapin'  off  de  rozzum  f'um  'is  bow, 

Whippo'will  a-mo'nin'  on  a  lawg; 
Moon  ez  pale  ez  hit  kin  be  a-risin'  mighty  slow — 
Stahtled  at  de  bahkin'  ob  de  dawg; 
Swing  de  baby  Eas'way, 
Swing  de  baby  Wes', 
Swing  'im  to'ds  de  Souflan'  whah  de  melon  grow 

de  bes'! 

Angel  singehs  singin', 
Angel  bells  a-ringin', 
Sleep,  mah  li'l  pigeon,  don'  yo'  heah  yo'  mammy  coo? 

Eyelids  des  a-droopin'  li'l  loweh  all  de  w'ile, 

Undeh  lip  a-saggin'  des  a  mite ; 
Li'l  baby  toofies  showin'  so't  o'  lak  a  smile, 
Whiteh  dan  de  snow,  or  des  ez  white. 
Swing  'im  to'ds  de  No'flan', 
Swing  'im  to'ds  de  Eas' — 

Woolly  cloud  a-comin'  fo'  t'  wrop  'im  in  'is  fleece! 
Angel  ban'  a-playin' — 
Whut  dat  music  say  in'? 
"  Sleep,  mah  li'l  pigeon,  don'  yo'  heah  yo'  mammy  coo?  " 


119 


ME  AND  BILL 

Got  t'  thinkin'  t'other  day 

'Bout  my  brother  Billy,  'way 

Off  out  there  in  Idaho 

Where  they's  only  Injuns  grow. 

Bill  an'  me  ain't  wrote  a  word 

To  each  other,  an'  hain't  heard 

Nothin'  'bout  each  other  sence 

When  that  Spanish  War  commence. 

Felt  plum'  bad  t'  think  how  Bill, 
Snoopin'  'round  some  rocky  hill 
Huntin'  signs  o'  gold,  must  feel 
When  a  thought  o'  rne  would  steal 
Over  him.    Right  then  an'  there 
I  resolved  it  wasn't  fair 
Treatin'  pore  ol'  Billy  so, 
An'  him  out  in  Idaho. 

Went  an'  got  m'  pen  an'  ink 
An'  m'  paper;  tried  t'  think 
What  I'd  better  say  t'  Bill 
After  six  years'  keepin'  still. 
Couldn't  seem  to  strike  it  right 
Though  I  tried  with  all  m'  might. 
Ev'ry  idee  that  would  come 
Seemed  to  sound  most  awful  dumb. 

'T  last  I  figgered  it  all  out, 
An'  'twas  this  way,  jest  about: 
Bill's  a-feelin'  bad  fer  me, 
Like  as  not,  an'  likely  he 
Thinks  how  bad  I  feel  bekase 
I  don't  hear  f'm  him  now'days. 
Thinks  "  Bet  Jake  calls  me  a  beast — 
Pore  ol'  cuss,  all  'lone,  back  east !  " 

120 


Yit  I'll  bet  'at  he  don't  feel 

Very  bad,  nor  miss  a  meal 

'Cause  he  don't  git  word  f'm  me — 

Jest  'is  conscience  hurts,  ye  see. 

Then  I  put  m'  ink  an'  pen 

An'  m'  paper  back  again. 

Then  I  says :     "  Bill's  conscience  kin 

Tell  him  when  t'  write  agin." 


121 


LOVELY  WOMAN'S  WAY 

How  dainty  are  the  hammers  that  the  wily  women  wield 
When    speaking    of    a    sister   whom    ostensibly    they'd 

shield ! 
They  say :     "  Poor  Nellie !  It's  a  shame !  To  think  that 

just  because 
She's  lost  her  once-high  standing  by  transgressing  social 

laws 

She's  shelved  for  the  remainder  of  her  lonely  little  life 
And  never  can  become  a  self-respecting  fellow's  wife ! " 

Sometimes  they  say  it  this  way,  with  a  smile  'twould 

draw  the  bees : 
"  I  think  she's  just  a  darling — and,  oh,  my !  The  life  of 

ease 
She  might  have  been  enjoying  if  her  husband  hadn't 

found 
That  other  fellow  loved  her,  and  released  the  tie  that 

bound ! 

And  really,  she  is  not  so  bad — I  see  her  every  day, 
And  she's  a  whole  lot  better  than  the  spiteful  gossips 

say." 

Or:     "I  just  dote  on  Mabel,  and  I  often  dine  with  her, 
Though  all  the  time  I  am  scared  to  death  to  think  what 

might  occur! 
She  does  the  very  craziest  things — I'm  really  scared  to 

know ! — 
She  goes  with  lots  of  chaps  with  whom  you'd  never  see 

me  go ! " 

How  dainty  are  the  sledges  that  the  wily  women  wield, 
When  whacking  at  their  sisters  whom  ostensibly  they'd 

shield! 


122 


MY  PIPE  IS  OUT 
(Lay  of  the  drained-out  writer.) 

My  pipe  is  out;  the  World — my  'baccy  pouch — 
Is  flabby-flanked  and  empty  to  the  touch. 

I  shake  it  till  its  lank  sides  sag  and  slouch, 
Yet  all  it  yields  me  doesn't  count  for  much. 

At  length,  its  dustings  settled  in  the  bowl, 

I  seek  my  match-box  (that's  my  brain)  to  find 

A  germ  of  genius'  blaze  with  which  my  soul 
May  fire  the  fruits  of  gropings  patient,  blind. 

No  match  is  there ;  the  last  one  I  had  struck 
To  boil  the  pot  of  hunger  in  my  home — 

To  kindle  torches  of  dissembled  pluck 

And  guide  some  brother's  footsteps  as  they  roam. 

My  pipe  is  out;  I  puff  at  it  in  vain — 

No  taste  or  warmth — no  winking  glow  I  see! 

Whence,  then,  the  longed-for  solace  for  my  pain 
That's  mocking  at  the  helplessness  of  me? 


123 


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